Celtic Karma
by Mairemor
Summary: Some matches are made in heaven but the best are made in Lisdoonvarna. The last thing newly divorced Sookie wants is another man until, that is, Amelia drags her to Lisdoonvarna's Matchmaking Festival. Loads of frolics AH AU
1. Chapter 1

Celtic Karma in Lisdoonvarna

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I wrote this for my bb Zigster's birthday and thought I'd share. In Dublin slang, a _mickey dodger_ is a nun. Amhráns are songs, bodhráns are Irish goatskin drums, and amadáns are eejits. Eamon is Edward and Cullen, hehheh, is truly an Irish name from Co. Kildare. Hope you get a chance to go to Lisdoonvarna Co. Clare. I stuck in Eamon O'Cullen for shits and giggles….Sorry Bella, Amelia's got him now. Oh, yeah, a hooley is a party and craic means fun All of other great fics for Zig's B-day can be found at http://www . fanfiction . net/~zigsbday

**Thanks to AmaZen for betaing at the 11th hour**.

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**Mighty craic. Loads of frolics,  
Pioneers and alcoholics,  
Hairy chests and milk-white thighs,  
And mickey dodgers in disguise.  
There's amhráns, bodhráns, amadáns,  
Arab sheiks, Hindu Sikhs, Jesus freaks,  
This is heaven, this is hell. Who cares? Who can tell?  
Oh, Lisdoonvarna  
Lisdoon, Lisdoon, Lisdoon, Lisdoonvarna!**

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I'd _way_ stopped crying and my past was behind me on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Very early, on a cool drizzly Irish morning, I stepped out of the terminal at Shannon Airport in county Clare feeling like I was taking my first baby steps as a single woman. I'd taken the ring from my finger before I left New York, but my finger still felt naked without it. Still, I was with my BFF Amelia, free as a bird, and a long way from Bill and New York City. Amelia slewed her eyes at me, guessing my thoughts, the way she always did and muttered, "Fuck him and fuck Lorena."

But the wounds still hurt, though now I was more angry than sad. He'd cheated on me and then married the bitch he'd cheated with. Pride fucks with your head in some nasty ways. I was proud. Too proud to have admitted the truth even when my friends tried to tell me. You know what they say about pride. The fall was long and very hard.

Still, my divorce was finalized. I was free and it was time to recover from the Big Hurt. Amelia arranged our trip as a "liberation vacation," saw to all of the details, and handed me my ticket when we went out to celebrate my new status as a single girl. Amelia had her heart set on a trip to the Emerald Isle because she gushed, "I love Irish guys! Those accents! Besides, I want to combine my DNA with a hot-blooded Celtic bad boy who looks like Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Cillian Murphy, or Colin Farrell." Ihad no plans to combine my DNA with anyone's no matter how dark and Irish they might be. But my great-grandfather, Niall Brigant, was born and raised in Clare in the west of Ireland and I'd always wanted to visit.

We drove away from Shannon airport in a fine Irish mist and headed north-west past neat white houses, grey stone walls, green fields, cows, sheep, a ruined abbey, and the restless blue-green sweep of the Atlantic Ocean crashing against the Cliffs of Moher. The Emerald Isle indeed. _Then_, the countryside changed into a lunarscape of pockmarked limestone pavements crisscrossed by huge cracks, bursting with gentians, wild orchids and bloody cranesbill. We were in the Burren, the heart of the county Clare. As we did the tourist thing and maneuvered across four foot deep cracks in the limestone toward a Neolithic portal tomb, I could totally believe that unusual and magical occurrences, romantic and otherwise, happened here on a daily basis.

We pulled into a bright, modern B & B called Burren Breeze a mile outside of our first destination—the town of Lisdoonvarna. When I stepped out of our en suite shower, Amelia was grinning and fluttering around our room like a pheromone-crazed female moth. This, it turned out, wasn't far from the truth. We emerged fresh and clean and made our way to the parlor where the B & B's owner had Lyons tea; cheese, tomato and cucumber sandwiches, and the most delicious scones I had ever inhaled.

I was in the process of inhaling and nearly choked on a raisin when our hostess enquired with a twinkle in her voice, "So, ladies you're here for the Matchmaking Festival. There's quite a crowd this year."

She swept a practiced eye over us and winked. "But you two will do brilliantly. The lads are eager and burning embers are easily kindled."

She cocked her head at Amanda conspiratorially and I had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. O'Hallorin and Amanda were in cahoots. "You've set up your appointment?"

Amelia grinned sheepishly and my hackles rose. "Ah…yes…right after lunch at The Matchmaker's Pub."

Correctly discerning my need for alcoholic reinforcement, Mrs. O'Hallorin laced my tea with whiskey as she explained that one of Ireland's oldest traditions is matchmaking. And that it's done openly for five weeks in Lisdoonvarna. And that time was now.

" Ah sure, we're just a spot on the map, but when the festival gets under way, hoards of singles hunting for mates, or just wanting to mate, swell the town's population to the thousands." She glanced at her clock. "You'd best get going…you'll have trouble finding a parking space with the crowds."

The Mini Cooper's air was definitely charged as we drove the winding mile into town. My eyes bored into the side of Amelia's head as she whistled tunelessly and stared straight ahead.

"You're whistling in your very own graveyard chica," I hissed, " 'Cause I'm gonna kill you…"

Amelia smirked. "No …you won't. Not when you consider the…possibilities available to us… especially when you see who Mr. Daly's got lined up for you."

I groaned. "Jesus Amelia...I've barely climbed out of the pit …why the HELL would you think I'd want to jump back in?"

Amelia waved her hand in dismissal. "I know you girlfriend. Haven't I always called it right when it comes to your men? Didn't I tell you Bill wasn't right and that that Alcide guy was too mind-fucked and whipped…even when I knew you'd get pissed off at me? C'mon Sook…I love you sister! I'm doing this for you because I know in my bones you need this."

I knew that Amelia really _did_ love me and was out for my best interest no matter what my opinion might be, so I stopped glaring, leaned over, and kissed her cheek even though butterflies were swarming in my stomach.

"OK. OK. I'll do this because you've very obviously gone to great lengths and schemed to get me here…and because I love you every bit as much as you love me."

Amelia just smiled serenely, reached over and patted my hand. "You won't regret it…"

"And if I do?"

Her mouth quirked, "Well, there are a lot of cliffs around here…I guess you could claim I was clumsy. Or…if it's a truly hideous experience, you pick me a guy just as bad as the one you wind up with and I'll have to hook up with him."

The town was swarming. Punks, Goths, bikers, conservatives, geeks, and mad looking Americans in cable-knit Aran sweaters, tweed caps, and Kelly green slacks that screamed, "I'm not awesome! I'm not Irish! But I'm available and very, _very_ desperate!"

The horror. The horror.

Amelia wasn't leaving anything to chance. She had lined up a pro.

Willie Daly, our personal matchmaker, was holding court in a small front room at The Matchmaker's Pub at a table with a hundred-year-old, family-owned matchmaker's ledger. He stood, shook our hands, and pulled out our chairs like a gentleman, before getting down to business. My conspiracy theory gained a ton weight when he turned his attentions to me and was amazingly sympathetic and solicitous about my "troubles". What the _hell _had Amelia told him?

He opened his ledger and pointed to recent happy endings that began in Lisdoonvarna. Then he turned further back to pages curled from age. The ledger was stuffed with poems, photos and recent love-seeker applications. His accent was easy, slow, with a musical lilt.

"Sure an' there's nothing to worry about miss. My arrangements are all above board. Women sign up for free; men pay around twenty Euros. Take them or leave them as you please. At the Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival, it's the chemistry of a face-to-face introduction that can turn wishful thinking into a possible mate." His eyes flashed with humor. "Add in non-stop dancing, music, flirting, flowing pints, and racing hormones, and it's no wonder the festival's lasted for one hundred and fifty years. Your friend here has already corresponded with a prospective suitor, but most of my matches are made after the Festival. Ah…the musicians are warming up. Your lad should be here shortly. "

Amelia excused herself and made her way over to the session group where a short but gorgeous brunette flashed an adorable crooked smile and actually kissed Amelia's hand before she pulled him into a lip lock. I glared at Amelia. Et tu Brute. Ha! Conspiracy confirmed.

So there I sat, like a wilting wallflower, Willie Daly at my side, as the place packed and turned tribal. Bodhráns beat rhythmically driving the beat of jigs, reels, hornpipes, and stamping feet. Lust was in the air. Quite against my will and better judgment, I was in the market again. But what was I looking for--a prince, an angel, or just a good time? I was inclined to skepticism, and like our immortal Dubya said, "Fool me one shame on me; fool me twice…can't get fooled again."

OK. I decided, I was here with Amelia for the craic—nothing real, nothing intense. End of story.

There was a break in the music while the musicians refilled, and Amelia immediately dragged her Mr. O'Right over to meet me. The brazen hussy didn't look the least bit perturbed that I had figured things out. The musician, to give him credit, did seem a bit shy and sheepish in a sweet sort of way. Plus, he smiled his crooked smile and shook my hand with just the right amount of pressure as Amelia babbled.

"Sookie, this is Eamon O'Cullen. We've been um…corresponding. Willy set it up and …"

She smiled and her whole face lit up. "I feel like it's Christmas!"

As the Irish saying goes Amelia and Eamon were chalk and cheese from the get go, but they made it clear that opposites do attract. Eamon wasn't my type. He was almost too beautiful—but he did have the voice of an angel.

Amelia had her angle, but where was mine? It didn't take much looking around at this crowd of washed out patrons, eager women, and horny males both local and foreign to conclude that, besides Eamon O'Cullen, there were no members of the angel host anywhere within an ass's bray of the Matchmaker's Pub.

Until—holy Mary Mother of …incoming at six o'clock—of the Fallen variety, but an angel nonetheless. Everything was moving in slow motion except my heart—goose bumps—I felt hot, then cold –the room whirled. Shit! I was holding my breath.

_Breathe Stackhouse. Breathe!_

What was approaching me was six and a half feet of lithe grace and power—his mane of blond hair pulled into a pony tail --blue jeans, black T-shirt, black leather jacket and intense blue eyes the color of the restless waters off the cliff of Moher on a sunny day. And his face—God help me— high broad cheekbones, wide sensuous mouth--incredibly male—with a shadow of plush stubble across his chiseled jaw. And, Jaysus, he was gripping a guitar case and a bodhrán. I'm a sucker for musicians. Bill played the piano really well. If my angel could play, I was royally fucked.

His eyes locked on mine and I was caught. Deer in the headlights caught; in the path of a tsunami caught.

_Be nice angel_. I prayed. _On second thought…storm the keep. Sack and pillage. _

The bulge in his pants was heavenly. My eyes dropped to his fly and the zipper's tab. Mmmm. The beautiful bastard saw me do it and grinned a pussy-eating grin.

Eamon O'Cullen called out—"Jaysus it's Northman. Get up of your asses as fill up the glasses. The craic will be mighty now."

Breath in. Out. Yes. Another.

He was joking with Eamon O'Cullen and the other musicians, but his eyes kept coming back to me and mine were riveted upon him. I tried to tear my eyes off of him. Impossible. I was like a frozen hard drive whose lust program wasn't responding to my frantic attempts to reboot.

His eyes took me in head to toe with particular attention to my boobs. Willy grinned.

"That's yer man alright! Take a good look. Will I give him the nod then? The lads are slagging him something fierce."

I licked my lips. He noticed that too.

"Um…sure."

Nod? Hell yes! Give "yer man" a standing ovation just for taking up space and breathing. He threw back his head and laughed. A genuine laugh--rich and full bodied.

"Ah...leave off for a minute will ye!"

Fuck! His accent. A Viking god with an Irish accent. Assuming his peen was proportional, what more could a girl who was out for a good time want than this vision of dropdeadfuckinggorgeouness?

My fallen angel, my dangerous, addicting, temptation bent and carefully placed his case beneath an unused table displaying his high, tight ass right through the jeans. As he straightened and turned toward me, an American chick, with a Kelly green T-shirt that said "Hooley in My Pants" bumped into him, then nearly melted at his feet. He murmured something in a lovely Irish accent, but looked straight at me and smiled. Dazzling. Every nerve in my body went wild, sparking like a fuse about to explode.

Those eyes. That heartbreaking smile. The way he rubbed his thigh slowly up and down, up and down.

Every move he made said, _Sex. Hot. Sizzling. Over every inch of you. Sex like you've never had it before and never will again._

And in the middle of that pub in a small town sitting smack dab next to a sixty year old matchmaker, I was away with the birds—lost. Fucked! When he came over and started to chat me up…I was putty—very happy putty—in his hands.

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_Fictus Interruptus…Should I continue me darlins??  
_


	2. Chapter 2

Celtic Karma in Lisdoonvarna .

**Of Magic Circles**

_**A/N: First off. My apologies for the time it's taken me to get back to this story. I have nine children (24-4) and believe me—a Durkan Clan reality TV show would give tummy-tucked Kate's a run for its money. **_

_**Go to my profile for links to The Burren, Co Clare and the Matchmaker's Festival, and the songs I mention. **_

_**Irish slang 101: A "Cute Hoor" is **__**someone who's quietly sly as in,**__**"He's some cute hoor alright, didn't buy a pint all night and went home seein' triple." "Cute" means crafty as in "He's cute like a fox." A "piss artist" is an alcoholic. To get "pissed" means to get drunk not angry. "Loosebit" is slang for a slutty woman… well, duh.**_

"_**Tiocfaidh ar La," pronounced like /chucky awr law/, means "Our Day Will Come." It's an Irish Republican political slogan hoping for a united Ireland.**_

_** I'm dedicating this chapter to Patrick-my magnificent husband and father of Clan Durkan. 27 years ago I bagged a Keltoi Spectularae. Features & Behavior: tall, dark, handsome, gorgeous accent, loving, devoted husband & father. I couldn't do it w/o you **__mo shíorghrá_ ;-D

_*** I'm pimpin' a wonderful fic written by very talented women. **__**CHECK OUT NorCrisps' fic "Wife Swap"****—**__**A Night Huntress/SVM crossover fic. **_

_**The link is: **_www [dot] fanfiction [dot] net/s/ 5930664/ 6/_** It's fab! ***_

_**Thanks to the girls who've got my back-AmaZen and FDM**_

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_**Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows**_

_**Fair is the lily of the valley**_

_**Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne**_

_**But my love is fairer than any.**_

_**Come over the hills, my bonnie Irish lass**_

_**Come over the hills to your darling**_

_**You choose the rose, love, and I'll make the vow**_

_**And I'll be your true love forever.**_

_**'Twas down by Killarney's green woods that we strayed**_

_**When the moon and the stars they were shining**_

_**The moon shone its rays on her locks of golden hair**_

_**And she swore she'd be my love forever**_.

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Willie Daley rose, shook Eric's hand and motioned to his vacated chair.

Eric kissed my hand. The touch of his lips, so warm and gentle on my skin, worked like a double shot of single malt scotch on my jagged nerves.

Willie took in the scene with proprietary pride, his dark eyes as bright and clever as a magpie's.

"I was just after tellin' yer woman about Mountain Crest—the Burren trekking and horse riding centre ye run with Eamon. It's a great investment that!"

He looked a bit sheepish.

" And you already know that Ms. Stackhouse is a primary school music teacher, so I'll leave ye two to get acquainted."

He scanned his book of Happily Ever Afters and eyed two big bosomed shapely blonds across the room.

"Ah yes…that would be the Pierce twins. I have quite a line up scheduled for those ladies."

"'Yer… woman'?" I sputtered. Willie had obviously filled him in on my teaching career. What else had he told him? Come to think of it, what the hell had Amelia told the matchmaker?

My jet-lagged bubble of misty sentiment popped and I refocused my thoughts on the bizarre reality right in front of me. My mouth dropped open like a landed fish.

_Oh fuck…that was subtle Stackhouse! He's watching me—Correction…they're both watching me. If this is some kind of a test, I think I just bombed it…_

Eric's mouth quirked.

"Getting your first taste of Irish speak? Over on this side of The Pond 'your woman,' or 'your man' means 'The person to which I'm referring.' Not that your mine or I'm yours."

His eyes held mine. A thought seemed spelled out by invisible brushstrokes…_but_ _maybe one day_.

I blushed like a goofy teen "'Your man'...got it…"

He grinned. "You look like a woman in need of a drink."

I nodded and smiled a bit inanely as he folded himself into the chair with a lithe grace I wouldn't have imagined in such a tall, powerful man. But then who would have thought that those big fingers could move so deftly over a guitar's strings. _You bet your fine firm ass I do_

"You have no idea!"

I waved my arms. "I had no idea this festival was going down! My friend Amelia planned the trip for me…"

I really didn't want to go into why she'd planned it. Want to make a man run away as fast as his legs will carry him? Start bitching about your ex. I wasn't quite sure how things would play out with Eric, but I didn't want him to mark me as a bitter woman with a major chip on her shoulder and back away. My self esteem was in the negatives and, pathetic as it was, I didn't want to be rejected again.

"I know all about crafty friends who think they're looking out for you. I suspect Eamon and your friend Amelia are partners in crime. Eamon did the same thing to me…he couldn't be bothered with asking my opinion."

His eyes flicked over me from stem to stern and the climate in my erogenous zone zoomed from temperate to tropical.

"Not that I regret his lack of bother."

He caught the waitress's eye as I reached for my purse to fish out a credit card.

"Please. Let me get these!"

He shook his head. "Not at all! What kind of Irish hospitality would I be showing you if I let you do that? What's you pleasure?"

_My Pleasure? That would be a triple shot of Eric Northman. _

Bless my newly lucky stars. My crappy past history with relationships to the contrary, I must have done something right in a past life to earn this karma.

"I'll take a double shot of Jamison's straight up."

"And I'll have a pint, Carmel darlin'."

Used to couples in need of liquid fortitude, Carmel was blessedly quick with our drinks.

While I belted down my spine straighter, Eric took a long draw of his creamy pint of Guinness and sighed. "Ah that hits the spot!"

A trace of creamy foam clung to his upper lip. Very slowly, his tongue traveled over his upper lip. Yummy, yum yum.

God, could Eric play me from the start! Every time his gaze met mine, my pulse pounded. I'd promised myself I'd be pragmatic...later. This was my vacation. I was in the middle of the Irish Equivalent of Mardi Gras and girls just want to have fun…right? I didn't intend to get burnt, just heat things up a bit

He leaned back in his chair stretching his long legs beneath the table. "So then, is it 'Sookie' you go by…or is it Susanna?"

"Well it _says_ Susanna on my birth cert, but my friends and family call me Sookie. It's an old family name on the Brigant side. My mother's people were from County Clare. That's why I thought Amelia decided to come here."

I was babbling and we both knew it. Eric swept away my poise and defenses the way a heavy undertow sweeps the sand from under your feet.

A devilish look came into his eyes."Which do I get to call you?"

I smiled and hoped my voice didn't sound as hollow and jet lagged as I felt.

"Oh…Sookie's fine. And I guess I can call you Eric. That's not a very Irish name for a guy with an accent as thick as yours."

There was an edge to his voice and a sort of bleak expression in his eyes that I couldn't fathom.

"My Viking ancestors founded Dublin, Waterford and Cork City over a thousand years ago, so I've earned the right to call myself an Irishman."

An ironic smile touched his lips.

"God knows Irish soil has soaked up a fair bit of Northman blood. Besides, where do you think the Irishmen get that red hair? My mother's a red-head, and Viking by ancestry too since Doyle, Dubhghaill_,_ means "son of the evil foreigner." Some loosebit must have fancied the aul' mucksavage since he has tens of thousands of descendants in Ireland today, myself included."

"I didn't mean to imply that you didn't belong..."

The smile was back. "We Irish are very clannish. You know, in the North they can usually tell by your name and address if you're Catholic or Protestant? Sometime I wish that I didn't belong. Not to worry."

The knot between my shoulder blades begged for release. Without really thinking, I began to knead the spot when my shoulder joined my neck.

Eric eyed me with concern and was around the table in a wink.

"You must be banjaxed! Here let me…I took a course in Swedish massage when I finished secondary school."

With what I'm sure were the loftiest of intentions, he reached for my shoulders and slowly pressed his strong, slightly calloused hands against my skin.

I made a strangled, "Aak!" as his fingers worked in magic circles. His voice was warm and soothing as he murmured, "Just let go Sookie…" until I felt at home with his touch and relaxed. Beneath the steady pressure of those long strong fingers, I forgot for a while that I was in a room in a foreign country filled with horny strangers.

I purred like a cat as he increased pressure and released my tension using slow, rhythmic, gliding strokes and tight circular movements. My nipples sprang to attention and throbbed against the lacy fabric of my bra. I sighed as my head dropped back landing smack dab against Eric's bulging launch pad. He hissed softly but continued being the best of good Samaritans. I just couldn't keep my head upright. I'd moan softly and shift a little relaxing into his strokes and friction. Then he'd hiss softly in response. It was a vicious cycle.

Warm tingles flowed down my spine until the climate in my core was slick and tropical. All I can say is that his technique would have won him a first place with any female judge on Ireland's Got Talent.

By the time he'd finished with me, my jet lag had evaporated and my only impulse was to get us both naked and joined at the hip. If he could do that to me by touching my shoulders…

Eric's talented fingers kept working as the séisiún musicians took their places again. Eamon caught Eric's eye and jerked his head.

"Get yer arse back over here and put those fingers on a set of strings ye cute hoor!"

His voice seemed a bit husky. "My fingers are happy where they are. Start up. I'll be along."

As musicians of every shape and style began to fill the chairs, Eric gave me a quick overview of the players.

"If we'll be seeing more of each other I'd better classify the particular behaviors of common séisiún species. You pick the first specimen, so."

I nodded at a short plump woman with wild curly hair, several body piercings, and a Celtic Knot tattoo who had pulled several tin whistles from a handmade leather pouch. '

"Oh. That's one's a _Bizaro hairylimbicus. _That species is about as seductive as a nun. Her primary habitats are séisiúns, drum circles, and covens with some migratory patterns based on Celtic reenactments."

I nearly peed myself laughing. Eric stopped massaging and hunkered down next to me.

"That's a very common species in these parts. Try again."

"OK If I'm going to hire you as a local guide, I'd better give you a decent challenge ."

I nodded at a hulking drunken Yank whose facial hair resembled the Notre Dame leprechaun mascot's beard. He also sported a Tam O'Shanter cap, Dropkick Murphy's T-shirt, and a green and white tattoo on his shoulder that proclaimed "Tiocfaidh ar La" in Celtic script.

"Ah. _Drunkarse Thugticae's _a real piss artist. From the accent, I'd say his primary habitat's Boston. When he's not beating on his chest, his primary instrument is always a bodhran."

"How about his features and behavior?"

Eric shifted and leaned against my chair.

"Well, the markings are obvious. There's the inflammatory tattoo with the Provo slogan written in Irish which he can't pronounce and doesn't understand. As for behavior—he loves brawling and getting shitfaced. He's been migrating between here and Doolin for two months now. It's only a matter of time before someone gives him a good clatter in the jaw."

Eric eyes shifted to a thin fiddler with a long stringy ponytail and a long bony nose who was demoralizing a hovering newbie who had timidly suggested that they might play "Whiskey in the Jar."

"Now yer man there terrorizing the poor little shite with the gift store bodhran is a common _Elitecus Snobulae. __Snobulae _despise all other species and are constantly giving out to anyone who'll listen about how all the other species ruin traditional music. "

"And the 'poor little shite'?"

His grin widened. "She's still in the larval stage of musicianship, so she'd definitely be an _Insecurous Overcompensatious."_

By this point I was laughing my ass off and getting quite a few bitchy looks from a group of local girls who were trying to attract Eric's attention.

"Hey. Not fair! You have to identify yourself and Eamon too."

"Fair enough…"

He eyed Eamon who had just said something which had the entire session, except for _Snobulae_, in stitches.

"Eamon? He's a classic _Craic Humeroustae. _Just look at the puss on Snobulae! He loves to provoke other species and has been known to 'burp-sing' _Oh Danny Boy when_ provoked by purists. He also intentionally mispronounces the names of tunes so they're suggestive."

A teasing grin clicked on.

"As for me…you've had your course. Let's see what you've learned."

I turned, so that my legs were toughing his long lean haunches. I could feel the heat of him through his jeans. His eyes caught and held mine and I was hammered by the sheer force of his masculinity.

I cleared my throat and tried for scientific decorum.

"I'll need a chance to observe your habits and behavior more closely if I'm going to figure out what species you belong to, but I'm pretty sure that you're a _Beenthere Donethaticus."_

I studied his gorgeous face with its compelling blue eyes and firm features. Took in the confident set of his shoulders. I pictured them naked. I also pictured planting open mouthed kisses over them.

"Hmm…features and behavior… I detect a slightly disinterested, wry smile and a very dry wit. The specimen before me can play every tune and multiple instruments remarkably well and doesn't engage in petty session politics—though he's a keen observer of said goings on. Has probably toured and played sessions all over the place, but doesn't talk about it, and makes everyone around him sound and play better. I'd say your primary habitat would be any place people play music with conviction and soul."

He put his hand over his heart and put on a stage Irish brogue.

"Ah woman, apart from the saintly bits and gross exaggeration of my character and talents, ye've nailed me to the wall! But you'll need to observe me in my native habitat. May I suggest a personal tour of the Burren tomorrow around ten?"

He looked at me with eyes as blue and innocent as a cloudless sky, "I'll even pack for tea."

How could any woman in any state of mind possibly say no to that?

My heart was hammering foolishly as I plunged over the edge and prayed like hell that he'd be there to catch me before I hit another cold, hard hurt.

I smiled. "OK I'd like that."

One finger traced the line of my cheek, and then brushed across my lips sending shivers of delight from my fingertips to my toes. His face was inches from mine.

"God, Sookie. You've the loveliest smile…"

So close. If I moved just a fraction forward my lips would brush his. But it was too soon regardless of what my nether regions or jet lagged emotions wanted. I pulled back a little, drugged by his clean scent, scrambling for something to say that didn't make me sound like a half-wit. Say something! _Shoot it strait girl …_

"You didn't classify _me_ yet."

His beautiful eyes stilled and became serious.

"Let's see.. you are an Angelicus Americanae. Features…an overwhelming beauty and a strength of spirit and a humor and playfulness that hide her pain. Like a phoenix, Angelicus rises from her ashes and all eyes follow her because they cannot bear to lose the sight of her."

The smiled left my lips. I couldn't pull away or make a lame joke. This wasn't the kind of thing that was supposed to happen when casually flirting with a man for the first time.

And yet…and yet…

Eric had touched the bruised thing that crouched deep within me. He discerned my wound, touched it gently, and offered me comfort.

My eyes stung with tears that didn't scare him away. I squeezed his hand too stunned and overwhelmed by what he'd just exorcized to speak. Bill's rejection had made me feel unloved and unworthy of being loved.

In that crowded pub, Eric had opened a passage where he stood on the other side with his hand extended while I shivered in the shadows and blinked out into the light. God! How I wanted to cross that threshold and take his hand.

I hadn't mentioned Bill; of course I wouldn't. But Eric knew or sensed I'd been hurt and let me know that he could accept that damaged part of me.

"Thanks. Eric." I took a deep breath and smiled shakily. "I hadn't expected to meet anyone…but I'm glad…_very_ glad they I met you."

His eyes were soft, caressing.

"So am I. You'll come with me tomorrow then?"

I nodded. "I'm looking forward to it. Now you better go play. They're waiting for you."

Eric handed me his business card and kissed my hand again, "Tomorrow then..."

Now that Eric had vacated his seat, Amelia joined me. She chattered about her plans and absolutely glowed with triumph, like a hunter that had just bagged the world's biggest buck. It seemed that we'd all be starting out together, and then heading our separate ways for our "tea." We talked a little more, then settled back to watch and listen.

I loved watching Eric and the other musicians. With their pints carefully placed beside their stools, surrounded by uillian pipes and bodhrans, spare mandolins, guitars, and Irish banjos propped on their stands, they created a magic circle of music. The locals in the room quieted slightly and shushed the noisier revelers as Eamon passed Eric the Irish harp. His fingers brushed the swell and dip of the burnished cherry wood frame before his fingers found the strings. Sea-blue eyes looked beyond the group, or perhaps within himself, drawing on the bardic power that was his heritage. Then, his fingers moved over the strings and the magic of his pure rich voice flowed over me, wrapping me in its embrace and claiming my heart:

_**When all is said and done, you are the only one**_

_**Follow on**_

_**For the open road is waiting**_

_**Like the song**_

_**We will welcome what tomorrow has to bring**_

_**Be it fair or stormy weather**_

_**Take my hand**_

_**And we'll walk the road together**_

_**I won't mind**_

_**If it turns out that we never find the end**_

_**For all I ask is that you want me for a friend**_

_**Days of beauty calling, vanish through a haze**_

_**Lost inside some spiral with no ending**_

_**Still you bring me loving, heal me with a touch**_

_**Lead me out to greet the calm descending**_

_**When all is said and done, you are the only one**_

**_88888888_**

Well, should I keep this hooley going?

_**Go raibh mile maith agat!**_

**May you have a thousand good things for reviewing :-)**

**(The song "Follow On" is by Paul Bradey-the link is on my profile)**


	3. Chapter 3

Celtic Karma Chapter 3

Of Shamrocks and Shenanigans

**A/N: **_**Go raimh maith agut for the PMs, reviews, alerts, and fav listings! I'm so glad that ye fancy Irish Eric. I'm on a roll with CK, but I will get back to Dark Storm Rising Birthday Suit, and my space spoof sometime soon. **_

_**More Irish speak: If you're being chatted up and a lad asks you "Are you well," he's not inquiring about your health. He asking, "Are ye up for grabs?" "Mott" is Irish slang for girlfriend. As in "Bollocks. Me mott's got a fierce rash in her box."**_

_**Shenanigans means …er…questionable conduct.**_

_**A **__**stone is a unit of mass equal to 14 LBS.**_

_** I self betaed this week…so all mistakes are mine.**_

I'll tell me Ma when I go home  
The boys won't leave the girls alone.  
They pull my hair, they stole my comb,  
But that's alright till I go home.

Chorus:  
She is handsome, she is pretty  
She is the belle of Belfast city  
She is courtin' one, two, three.  
Please won't you tell me, who is she?

Albert Mooney says he loves her,  
All the boys are fighting for her.  
They knock at the door and ring at the bell  
Saying "Oh, my true love are you well?"  
Out she comes as white as snow,  
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes.  
Oul Jenny Murray says she'll die,  
If she doesn't get the fella with the roving eye.

Chorus  
Let the wind and the rain and the hail blow high  
And the snow come tumblin' from the sky  
She's as nice as apple pie  
And she'll get her own lad by and by.  
When she gets a lad of her own,  
She won't tell her Ma when she goes home  
Let them all come as they will  
For it's Albert Mooney she loves still.

_**8888888**_

Since Eamon and Eric would be playing till the Matchmaker closed, and Amelia and I were too woozy to hang in there much longer, we said goodnight and headed for the door. Festival banners fluttered wanly beneath low clouds heavy with foggy dew. I linked arms with Amelia and yawned.

"I'm glad the fog's not down yet! It's hard enough to drive on the wrong side of these one car roads in broad daylight."

Amelia pulled against my arm and shook her head. "Nope not going!"

I pulled back; sometimes less is more. "Car!"

She pointed vaguely at a packed pub across the street. "No way! I wanna check out that pub first."

I scowled at her. "Not tonight chica!"

She rolled her eyes, swayed slightly, and lurched into the street. "Party pooper! Some of the other girls said we should check out Ashling Mo Ghrá's."

There was no help for it, so I trotted after her clucking like a mother hen. "OK But just one drink…then we'll go…"

I quickly renamed Ashling Mo Ghrá's _Mo 'Ass Grabs_. One persistent "admirer" whom I dubbed "Fire Crotch" even bellowed, "I want your ass!"

No surprise there; every asshole needs a home. After several episodes of having my tush grabbed and/or treated like a whack-a-mole, I was ready to join Citizens For Socially Responsible Reasons To Punch Someone In The Face. Quelling my urge to make a fist and have at it, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor and tried to steer my hammered BFF out of the pub. In mule stubborn drunk girl mode, Amelia was having none of it.

She parked herself on a vacant stool with a pint of lager and was accepting an offer for a second from a huge mohawked Irishman with the rippling muscles of a big powerful animal.

Plum dark eyes smoldered at me. He voice was deep, very male.

The air around him simmered from testosterone emissions as he rumbled, "There must be something wrong with my eyes; I can't take them off of the two of you."

Amelia giggled. I exhaled slowly and did my best to look utterly bored, but the Celtic tiger was too full of himself to pay attention to my "back off" signals and rumbled, "Are you together?"

Before I could think of some salty words, Amelia grinned boozily.

"We sure are! _She _can't drink any more 'because she's driving, but I'll have a…um…" Her eyes brightened. "A Harp!"

She leaned toward the tiger confidently and stage whispered.

"_I think I'm supposed to be with someone else…" _

Then, she opened her arms expansively nearly knocking me into a waitress with a tray of pints. "But there's nothing wrong with having one little drink."

He smiled with satisfaction. "None at all. It's my pleasure to see to the needs of two beautiful women. I'm Johnny Quinn. "

Amelia swayed slightly. She'd entered the glass–eyed underwater phase of drunkenness that prefaced being incapable of locating you own ass. "I'm Amelia Broadway! And my friend's…"

His eyes traveled over me and the hair on my nape prickled as big calloused hands molded around my shoulders.

"Spoken for, Quinn."

I twisted around. Eric's heat and anger crackled through me. Nostrils flared, he peered down at Amelia.

"One of the lads saw you and Amelia heading this way."

He regarded Quinn with steady, dangerous eyes.

"It's rough in here tonight. Eamon couldn't leave. But I could."

Quinn's smile had nothing behind it but teeth. "Why not let the ladies speak for themselves?"

Amelia looked fuzzily from of big man to the other with a smile on her lips and a slur in her voice. "Hey Eric 'zup? "

I watched with fascinated horror as she stuck her hand down her substantial cleavage, rooted around and pulled out a wilted bunch of shamrocks.

"Look what Eamon gave me for good luck! Isn't he just the sweetest?"

Eric's lip curled. "Maybe you should focus a wee bit more on Eamon and his shamrocks and a wee bit less on the pints."

My inner feminist roared and beat my inner cave woman back into the dark recesses of my psyche.

"Now ya'll just hold your horses! What right have you got to start in on Amelia?"

My Irish was well and truly up now. "Or me?"

Eric's eyes widened. "Jaysus! Where did you hide that Kentucky fried accent?"

Quinn licked his lips. "I love Southern belles…sugar!"

I balled my fists. Cave man alert! Red flags were shooting up faster than a poison ivy rash and making me every bit as cross and uncomfortable.

"For your information it's a_ Louisiana_ accent and I'm more of a Steel Magnolia… _sugar_."

Despite the fact that he'd cheated on me, my ex had been very jealous and possessive. If a man even looked at me with interest, he'd want to claim me. I can't tell you how many times I drove to work with a turtle neck or a scarf covering Bill's marks. I was so through with that shit! Every inch of me ached with fatigue. Eric and Quinn loomed over us like towering storm fronts and I didn't want or need the drama their collision would cause.

I must have looked and sounded a lot like a Yorkshire terrier snarling at two Irish Wolfhounds. "Now listen up fellas! Ya'll are growling over Amelia and me like a set of T-bones. Who the HELL do think you are? What I _want _and Amelia needs is sleep." Then added for good measure, "Alone!"

With the perfect timing her last name indicated, Amelia Broadway's head hit the table with a rousing _THWACK._

I launched myself out of the chair, pushed Johnny Quinn's hand off of Amelia, and glared balefully at the two Alphas.

"And, no thanks Mr. Quinn, Eric. I'll handle her myself! "

I patted Amelia cheek smartly and her eyes cracked open blearily. " Huh?"

"Come on chica. We have a big day tomorrow."

Just then, a lovely dark haired woman and her entourage entered the pub. They made a B line for Johnny Quinn. His eyes locked on mine for an instant before he smiled, turned away from us, and put his arm around the delicately featured brunette. Eric's hands unclenched. Mischief managed… at least for the time being.

"Bella! Back from Dublin already?"

"Just for the next three weeks. The Independent's covering the Festival. I'm taking photos for that, then shooting locally for a private commission."

She looked slightly amused as she took in Amelia's impersonation of a very large sack of potatoes.

I turned my back on the new pub princess, shook Amelia gently and managed to get her upright.

"Come on Amelia! Beddy–bye!"

She smacked her lips "'K…" then slid to the ground and crawled under the table chanting, " Sleepsleepsleepsleep…"

I squatted, attempted a dead lift, and quickly realized that my dramatic solo attempt to lug 130 pounds of dead weight to the car was doomed to failure. Images of attempting to propel Amelia a good quarter mile down the road to the rental car made me shudder.

Eric raised an eyebrow. His devastating lob-sided grin was back.

"Not that I don't think you're a capable, but Amelia weighs at least a stone more than you do."

He rested his hand lightly on Amelia. "May I?"

It was really hard to stay mad at Eric when he looked at me that way.

"Thanks Eric…she's all yours for the next quarter mile."

Eric shouldered his way out with Amelia in his arms. He glanced over at the Matchmaker, and then paused.

"What?"

His eyes flickered with amusement, "I see the Southern accent's tucked away again. I was trying to decide whether to get Eamon, but it'll keep till tomorrow and by then his mott here will be in her right mind." He chuckled. "Payback's a bitch. We'll see how she fares out navigating several miles of limestone slabs chokerblock with three foot deep cracks."

The capricious Irish weather had turned the night into pea soup. A cool damp mist hovered around us and trailed across the hummocks and hollows of the fields beyond the town. As we walked toward the edge of town where I'd found parking, pub sounds vanished and country sounds amplified in the dense air. Ghostly silver veils passed between us so that I felt as though I was passing over the borderlands to the Celtic Otherworld. Like a confessional screen, the mist's veil allowed a comfortable intimacy.

"Eric….thanks for helping me with Amelia. I couldn't have lugged her and I really didn't want to leave her while I got the car."

The clear cut lines of Eric's profile were dark against the mist. "Ah, sure it's nothing." He hesitated. "I'm sorry Sookie. I must have come off like a right eejit…beating my chest at that wanker Quinn."

I put my doubts aside and waited to hear what he had to say. "No harm done. I guess you were just trying to look out for us. I got a little flustered too."

I paused and bit my lip unwilling to dump my emotional baggage all over him.

He chuckled. "You had just cause. Being a woman is a terribly difficult task, especially when you're dealing with men like me and Quinn. "

"I take it he's not your best bud?"

"You could say that. Johnny Quinn's The Man, in these parts. He's captain of The Banners, County Clare's hurling team."

"I've heard of hurling…I mean the sport that involves goal posts and a field…not a toilet. But I've never had a chance to see it played."

"That's something we can do if you've an interest. Fair play to Quinn on that score. He's a natural captain and led The Banners to a superb All-Ireland final victory over Tipperary last September, but he's a wanker none the less. Eamon's old girlfriend, Bella Swan, was banging Quinn behind Eamon's back. Ever heard the saying a beautiful woman is the hell of the soul?"

I thought about the dark beauty I'd seen with her arm around Quinn; then I though about Bill. "Uh…no. I'd sort of thought the men got that distinction."

He snorted. "Well, I guess it flows both ways depending on who's being hurt. Eamon's never been hell on anyone. Best chap ye'll ever meet. That didn't stop Bella. Or Quinn. You'd think after Bella, Eamon would be wary of sudden moves. The matchmaking started as a bit of craic— a dare over some pints. But when Eamon saw Amelia's picture he went mad for her. All the e-mailing, Face Booking, Skyping led to…" He squinted critically at Amelia as I unlocked the car. "this."

I glanced into the fog. How could I be honest without betraying Amelia? I loved her. She was a good person with loads of heart. She was sincere about Eamon…for now. But she had a track record for sampling and discarding lovers like chocolates.

"Eric…Amelia means well. She's genuinely happy and excited to see Eamon."

His expression darkened.

I struggled with my conscience and my loyalty to my BFF. "Really! She likes to party but she's not _usually_ this…"

There was a bitter edge of cynicism in his voice. "Pissed out of her brain?"

Uncomfortable truth that. "Er…well…"

"_Usually_." He repeated coolly. "Eamon's me mate. I don't want to see him hurt. Again."

Despite his obvious misgivings, he got Amelia safely tucked into the back seat where she snored as he gently shut the car door.

We faced each other utterly separated from town and country by an ocean of fog, like primal beings in a liminal space between the worlds. I felt as if I could drift off into Faerie and only Eric's blue eyes tethered me to the earth.

It's a very frightening to look into a stranger's eyes and know that some essential spark within him draws you. To know with a bone deep certainty that you'll embrace this whirling vertigo.

The blond tangle of his hair had escaped from the tie that had bound it. I took the perilous leap. My hand lifted of its own accord and tucked some strands behind his ear.

I touched his hand and it closed around mine, warm and solid, in the shifting mist.

"Eric. _ No one _wants to be hurt. But we both know that there are no guarantees. It's a different gift every time- and each of us only has our own kind of love to give. But no matter what kind—if it's real we have to crawl out from behind our defenses to give the gift and take the risk."

He mused on some private memories, his face sober, and then looked searchingly into my face.

I smiled tentatively and Eric relaxed.

"You're right. Our great poet Patrick Kavanaugh said it best: '_Of an autumn day I saw her first and knew that her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue. I saw the danger and I passed along the enchanted way. And I said let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day_.'"

I squeezed his hand "That sounds about right."

He glanced around at the thickening fog. "There'll be grief alright if you try to drive back to the B & B when ye can't see road, nor house."

"I have a GPS…"

Eric's cell buzzed. His eyes scanned the text.

"Will the GPS tell you where the potholes are? Or how to get out of the way when a local's barreling down a one lane road in the opposite direction? Besides if you're minding the GPS in this fog, you won't be minding the stray donkey until ye hit it. Eamon just texted that he's wrapping up. He can give me a lift. Our place is just down the road from Mrs. O' Halloran's"

I looked at the fog, weighed my ability to drive and navigate against my intense fatigue and emotional overload, and handed Eric the keys.

"OK. Just don't get the idea that you'll always be in the driver's seat."

We buckled up and drove into a swirling sea of white.

His lip quirked. "What fun would that be? Sill I'm a gentleman. If my intentions tonight aren't entirely above board, may the curse of Mary Murphy and her nine blind illegitimate children chase me so far over the hills of Hell that God herself couldn't find me with a radio telescope."

I sucked in a breath as Eric pulled sharply to the left onto a sloping embankment as two locals streaked by on their way into town.

"Bring on the shady intentions! If her curse can track you on a night like this, it's a damn sight better than a GPS."

_**88888888**_

So, then?

"My friend wrote a poem that ended "Irishmen, Irishmen, I love you all!"

But the Northman variety is especially nice :-D

Working on the Burren trekking chapter now.

I should have it done by next week…unless anyone wants to babysit my kids for a few days.

Check my profile for links to Patrick Kavanaugh's poem "On Raglan Road" and on Hurling


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

**Of Delectable Dreams and Delving Deeper**

A/N **Irish** **Speak**: Pháistin means a young'un, but in the song _Mo Pháistín Fionn, it_ means "my fair-haired one". _Is tusa mo rún is mo ghrá gheal _means "tis you are my secret and bright love. It's a beautiful song. Look it up on YouTube. The link's on my profile page. _A fine soft day_ means it's raining lightly—like a mist. _Howya_ means "how are you?"

**PIMP! Entries are being accepted for The Age of Eric.** Great Prizes! Write a story for it! Check out it out at: http :/ theageoferic (dot) blogspot(dot) com/ Take out the dots shove it together…you know the drill

**Thanks to me motts AmaZen and FDM without whom I would be ****as useless as a chocolate teapot**

**_8888888888888_**

_**Mo Pháistín Fionn is my heart's delight**__**  
**__**Her heart shines out through her two eyes so bright**__**  
**__**And the bloom of the apple in her cheeks so bright**__**  
**__**And her neck like the swan on a March morn bright**_

_**Is tusa mo rún, mo rún, mo rún  
Is tusa mo rún is mo ghrá gheal  
You are my delight and my comfort all night  
And I'd wrap you up tight in my arms**_

_**O love of my heart my fair páistín  
Your lips are as red as the roses sheen  
But mine have touched no other I wheen  
Than the glass that I drank to the health of my queen**_

_**Were I in the town where sports prevail  
Between two barrels of sweet brown ale  
And my fond páistín upon my knee  
'Tis I would sing to her pleasantly**_

_**Mo Páistín Fionn**__** N. Parsons/G. Dunne)**_

_**88888888888888**_

I swam toward the surface of my dreams slick with more than sweat. Eric, _all_ of Eric, and last night's macho display combined to produced a disturbingly delicious dream. My libidinous subconscious had concocted wild stallions, one golden, one black, manes and tails flying as they reared up and tore at each other with hooves and teeth. They were so glossy that I could see myself, a milk white mare, on their powerful bodies.

I could smell their clean male scent, see the whites of their eyes as the black stallion reared straight up striking out at the Palomino—but the Palomino lunged and bit between the thrashing forelegs and the black fell backward. The butterscotch stallion bit and clawed mercilessly and won the fight.

Then things got really interesting. The great blond stallion became a great blond centaur. It cantered to me, whinnied imperiously, nuzzled my neck and cupped my breasts. He licked and teased my sensitive swollen nipples until my pounding heart echoed the throbbing pulse between my legs.

No, wait. Now the human legs had disappeared. Convenient! We'd both become centaurs.

His voice was low and husky. "I am the king of Ireland and you are the one that I desire."

Southern hospitality was definitely called for. I turned and presented. "Try some of my Southern Comfort...your highness."

The weight of him upon my haunches, the grip of his forelegs, the sweet scent of hot breath as his teeth closed on the throbbing pulse in my neck. Pulsing like a star about to super nova, I squeezed and released, squeezed and released. He plunged deep and I pressed my haunches back hard to meet each powerful thrust, every nerve slick and throbbing from the hot glide of his thick, throbbing cock.

The centaur king of Ireland tossed back his magnificent mane of golden hair and moaned.

"Ohhh...my freaking' head!"

_Huh?_

I cracked an eye. Twitched the curtain. Last night's thick syrupy fog had transformed into low clouds. A fine drizzle misted over green fields where a flock of sheep grazed with 'not a bother on them. That was fine for them; they weren't off for a day hike across some of the wildest terrain on the west coast of Ireland.

Like an accusing finger, a beam of silvery light stabbed at Amelia tightly squeezed eyelids. She gagged and lurched towards the loo. I held her head like an attendant priestess while she worshipped the porcelain goddess. After managing to swallow two Excedrin Migraine, she crawled back into bed while I took a shower and got my act together.

Amelia rolled onto her stomach and pulled the covers over her head.

"Blow-dryer sounds like a freaking car alarm…"

I pulled the covers back and shoved a bath towel under her hand. "Shower…then caffeine…Burren trek this morning with your sweetie. Remember?"

"Aak!" Amelia turned the proverbial forty shades of green as the aromas of an Irish breakfast wafted into the room.

I smiled sweetly. "And maybe toast…

She scowled. "Smug slut! How come you never get hung-over when I'm the one with the hollow leg?"

"Guess my gene pool comes with an alcohol resistant chromosome."

The truth was I knew when to say when. I got black-out drunk at a party when I was fifteen and paid for it with two lives. When, my parents, doctor, and the "sympathetic" social worker couldn't strong arm me into having an abortion they insisted on a "closed adoption." I understood shame and guilt—my parents made sure of that. For nine months my baby moved and grew within me and I never got to hold her. No. I'd never get that drunk again.

She tottered toward the bathroom. I followed to hold her head but she swatted me away.

"Go! Gorge yourself!"

"Are you sure?"

She fell to her knees for a second round of toilet hugging. "Out!"

I shut the door gently wondering whether Eamon might have to tie Amelia to the horse.

Mrs. O'Halloran had a table set for two. Blessed with a high metabolism, and low food guilt, I tucked right into my plate of rashers, sausage, black and white pudding, and poached egg. I was enjoying a good, strong cup of Lyon's tea when Amelia slunk in and slid into the chair facing me. She sipped her tea and nibbled on some soda bread.

Despite the fact that we'd be out in a drizzle, she'd put on a bit of makeup and seemed to be reviving. Her tousled dark-chocolate hair framed her heart shaped face with its slight dusting of freckles, huge eyes, and full upturned lips. Minus the bags under the eyes, it was the face Eamon had fallen for.

Mrs. O'Halloran bustled in. "Good morning girls! 'Tis a fine soft day, t'ank God!"

Amelia gave her a look of profound cynicism. "Is it?"

Mrs. O Halloran nodded. "Sure this will clear by mid morning. You'll have a grand day for your adventures." She glanced down at Amelia's flats. "Though you'll want trade those in for a pair of hiking boots…the 'pavement' yell be walking across isn't like the ones in New York."

Shortly afterward, I was driving on the passenger side of the car down the wrong side of a narrow road full of hairpin bends, windshield wipers sweeping the drops away in swishing arcs. The land was a muted sweep of green and grey that ended where sea cliffs met the Atlantic and the suck and crash of the incoming tide lay hidden beneath the mist. Rain pattered like a comforting hand patting, soothing me in that otherworld where earth, air and water combined. Low, dove-grey clouds flowed swiftly above the ridge of the hill, and the stone walls glistened dark with moss and ancient field stone. Eric was right; there was no way that I could have driven that road in the fog.

Even with the clouds slightly off the ground; it was hard to see much beyond the bend in the road. My mind was a crazy mixture of anticipation and sheer panic. The surge of attraction for a man I didn't know frightened the hell out of me. I shook my head.

Amelia touched my hand. "Scared?"

"A little…You?"

Amelia looked a bit hang dog. "Terrified! We've been talking for two months! And now …when he meets me…I come off like a drunken skank!"

"Amelia! If Eamon knows anything about you and if you've been the least bit honest…" I shot her a "significant" glance.

"I have! I mean…he knows I like to party…"

"Hehheh… Bet he doesn't know your frat christened you _The Cherry Picker_!"

Amelia grinned and shrugged. "Didn't see the point…He's not a cherry anyway."

"The point being there are lots of things you've probably shared. The good things…he knows your vibrant, fun, funny, charming…. He knows you work hard and play hard. Now he also knows that you _can _go a bit over board."

"Oh God Sook, I remember Eric, vaguely. She stared somberly at the spattering drops. "Apart from the fact that I was plastered, I don't even know what he'll tell Eamon. I only remember bits of what went on after we left the Matchmaker."

I snorted. "You remember that much?"

Amelia ran her had through her tousled hair so that little wisps stuck out. "I'm pretty sure some zombie alien deep fried upside down face from Sydney wanted to give me an 'Aussie Kiss'…whatever that is, and some big good looking guy with a Mohawk…and a forest of legs and feet…"

"Hmm. Do you want me to fill in the missing bit?""

She gnawed her lower lip. "Um… …I didn't dance on the table…" She had done a few times in the past.

"Noooo."

Neither of us did well with tense silence.

Better out than in. I took a deep breath. "You drunk flirted with Johnny Quinn. Eamon's ex, some chick named Bella, cheated on him with Quinn. And now Eric saw you flirting with him."

She groaned. "Jesus! I'm such an idiot! "

"Yeah, you _are_ an idiot when you're drunk…but at least you're a happy idiot." "Seriously, is it a bad thing for Eamon to see a few warts at this point? It was so obvious from his face, the way he touched you yesterday. The way you touched him, looked at him. Sweetie, you both walked into this with your hearts wide open. Trust your heart. It led you here. "

She sniffled. I handed her a Kleenex. One tear trickled down her cheek. "Damn period making me all emotional…I'd never want to do anything to hurt Eamon!"

She'd hurt men in the past. Amelia was like the cactus tree in that Joni Mitchell song. Her heart was full and hollow.

"Fact. Eamon's…different from the others. "

A small catch of breath then, "Yes. And I blew it…He saw the worst of me…at least Eric did"

"So? Show him the best. He's worth it, right?"

My conscience hissed, _Hypocrite! Coward! You know you want more than a fling. It's not your style! IF you ever get to the point where it's your turn for truth or dare, will you have the guts to tell Eric about your own skeletons? Will he reject you and begin to turn away, just like Bill? Cut your losses and run now…because you are about to lose your heart._

What about my own heart? That tiny wounded thing trembling behind the many walls, I'd placed between it and the terrible risk of losing myself again. To joy,to pain.

It was so much easier to just exist, grey and anonymous, within my shell.

"I'm stronger than that!" I muttered.

"Come again?"

"Just thinking about my stamina. "

Amelia raised her head and gave me a dubious look. "Oh yeah …We're tough—hung over…but tough. Booyah! Enough to ride a hide a couple of miles in the rain…across giant clefts in the rock, in the fog, on cliffs."

The GPS's precise British accent announced, "Left turn ahead," as a green and gold sign reading: _**Mountain Crest— Burren Trekking Adventures**_ came into view.

My stomach did flip flops as the Mini Cooper bumped up Mountain Crest's long gravel drive.

"Willie says these guys are our best matches, right? So, au natural will be a good test of tolerance. Last night they saw us jet lagged and several degrees short of sober. Today they'll see us in hiking boots, old jeans and ponchos."

"Not to mention our hair's gonna look like limp spaghetti the minute we get out of the car. They say the truth will set you free…but I'm thinking they're both going to get a little too much honesty…" She caught herself, "I mean…they're getting the morning after look and we haven't even hooked up yet!"

"At least we're showered and deodorized."

"It's a no win situation. Cosmo says that gets rid of the pheromones! " She sighed. " What price good hygiene…"

_Pheromones…musk…_Thoughts of centaur Eric's magnificent, rampant body swam through my brain.

_Mmmm __smooth bronze expanse of streamlined muscle and sinew tapering down to a taut, flat abdomen…the ripple of sleek hot muscle across smooth flanks…and a huge, stiff, throbbing…_

"Whoa Sook! Fence…Gate! Men!"

I slammed on the brakes and came to an abrupt halt inches from the gate, then reversed into the little parking area. Four horses and two handsome men regarded us with varying degrees of interest. A horse neighed; another made a disdainful phutting noise through its lips while our gorgeous "matches" swung the gates open.

Eamon walked up to Amelia with a grin of affectionate amusement. "Dead arose and appeared to many! You look…amazing."

Amelia swatted him playfully. "Liar!"

Eamon raised his hands.

"Really! You may be a chancer luv, but you're gorgeous."

Not one to waste time on apologies or explanations, Amelia wrapped herself around Eamon who got his free hand up just in time for Amelia's exuberant embrace. She was her talkative, happy self again…and if her encounter with Quinn upset him, Eamon wasn't letting it show.

Eric gave me a smile that sent my pulse racing as he walked toward me horses in tow.

"Howya?"

I smiled nervously "Great!"

I set my hand on the reigns and stroked the white blaze on the horse's nose in a desperate attempt to resist that captivating smile.

"Here let me take her. Our farm had horses…"

His gaze was as soft as a caress. "Sookie…"

Eric's big hand pressed against my back as the cool mist fell. He gathered me close against him his cheek pressed against my damp head. But I'd stopped caring about my hair, or my boots, or my poncho.

"Oh…"

I stood on tip-toe, and touched my lips to his. He deepened the kiss, his lips warm and sweet and a delicious shiver of wanting rippled through me. For a brief moment, I lost myself in the scent and heat of his freshly showered body, his breath warm against my face. The horse whickered and stamped her foot. We pulled back

Eric chuckled. "This is Grainne. You'll be riding her." Grainne stamped again and whinnied. "I think Her Nibs here's a bit jealous of you."

"Then we better make friends."

With a little help in the way of a boost to Amelia's derriere we were mounted. After "the lads" decided that we'd both stay in the saddle, Eric gave a brief explanation of the trail –its wonders and dangers—and we were ready to start. Mrs. O'Halloran had been right. The clouds were lifting and a golden light, with the promise of rainbows, shone through the veil of clouds.

Eamon moved to the front. "Right then. We'll be heading to the Cliffs of Moher first. Any questions before we start?"

Amelia waved her hand like a schoolgirl. " Just one…Um…What's an 'Aussie Kiss'"

Eric and Eamon goggled at each other, then burst out laughing

Eamon's eyes sparkled with humor "It's like a French kiss, luv…but it's applied Down Under."

His glance slid rapidly down her body, then his lips quirked upward. "As a special favor, I'd be happy to demonstrate the procedure for you after Tea."

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Yes! Yes! I'm writing the Burren trek now, and I promise rock-hard hawtness-but the girls said they needed to talk, and I'm my characters' bitch..

_**Your Review Lets Me Know You Care About This Story**_

**Imagine NINE kids. **_**All**_** yours. **

_**Now**_** imagine you're involved in everything from preschool camps and wiping wee bums to filling out FAFSA forms and editing papers for the college aged.**

**Next, imagine trying to hole up somewhere and write undisturbed**

**Welcome to my life.**

**Reviews = Motivation **

**(And if that doesn't do it…I'll bribe ye with the Irish potato cake recipe on my profile)**

***hugs***


	5. Chapter 5

**Celtic Karma Chapter 5**

**Of Sacred Wells, and Sea Cliffs**

_**Walking all the day**__**  
**__**Near tall towers where falcons build their nests**__**  
**__**Silver winged they fly**__**  
**__**They know the call of freedom in their breasts**__**  
**__**Saw Black Head against the sky**__**  
**__**With twisted rocks that run down to the sea**_

_**Living on your western shore**__**  
**__**Saw summer sunsets, asked for more**__**  
**__**I stood by your Atlantic sea**__**  
**__**And sang a song for Ireland**__**  
**_

By Mary Black "A Song for Ireland"

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**A/N: **T'anks for the reviews, PMs, alerts and fav listings. They inspire me. Really! Ireland is a land rife with holy wells dating to pre Christian times, standing stones, ring forts, and countless other reminders of an ancient heritage. Whether Christian or Pagan, Celtic spirituality celebrates the beauty of nature and the mysterious place where our world touches the divine. The Celts were once so rooted in place that a single word, "tuath," meant both people and land. It's one of history's great ironies that a people so rooted in place are now scattered across the globe. Damn. This is a love story with an edge. But it also has a center.

**Irish speak: "**Clints" and "grykes" are the slabs and deep cracks in the limestone pavement of the Burren**. ** "Ossified" means drunk. A "Shaper" who "throws shapes" is a young guy who takes up a lot of space when he struts around.

The link for Mary Black's magnificent "A Song for Ireland" is on my profile page.

**Thanks AmaZen and FDM –my muses and handlers ;-D**

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Amelia slid off of her horse, squatted beside a large bolder, rested her forehead against its cool surface, and breathed through her mouth.

"Horseshit and hangovers…do NOT mix."

Eric shook his head, and rode forward to consult with Eamon

Amelia gave Eamon her sick puppy look. "Sorry baby. Maybe if I rest for a while..."

Eamon's gold flecked eyes radiated concern. "Sure, you can have a lie down at Mountain Crest. Ride back with me. Fergus will follow; he knows he'll be gettin' a second breakfast."

Amelia smiled wanly. "I wouldn't want to slip off."

_Not before riding Eamon you wouldn't!_

Arm about her waist, Eamon walked Amelia to his horse. As he swung her up, she caught my eye. Yep. Aussie kisses were definitely on her 'to do' list.

Eric followed their retreat with gelid eyes. "He'll have his hands full."

"Doesn't look like he minds. Did you tell him about...?"

Eric shook his head. "Enough. That I had a bit of a run in with Quinn. Eamon knew Amelia was ossified. It's the festival, you're both gorgeous, and Quinn's always throwin' shapes. A bigger bollox never put his arm through a coat."

He scowled. "That wanker's got a hot eye for you too even though…"

He paused and looked away.

"Even though he could see that we're…" I blurted.

He turned and looked directly at me, blue eyes intent, observant. I rested the reins on the pommel, my mouth suddenly dry as toast. "I mean…well…Willie matched us…"

"But the matchmaking lark isn't something you'd ever do on your own…"

I met his eyes and smiled. "You're right. It isn't. But that doesn't mean that I'm not glad that it happened. I'm very glad that I met you. I never thought…"

"Neither did I."

We rode up the bridle trail along the cliff's edge in companionable silence. Eric had the grace and surety of a natural horseman. I watched his broad straight back, the way he controlled his mount with a squeeze of his thighs and a soft word, and concluded that my centaur dream wasn't so far from the truth after all.

About a half hour later, Eric stopped and opened the gate to a small boulder free field enclosed by a dry stone fence. Every rock had been fitted laboriously by some nineteenth century farmer .

Eric grinned. " One of that bastard Cromwell's soldiers said that the Burren didn't have trees enough to hang a man, water enough to drown him, or soil enough to bury him. That's true enough."

"But it's beautiful!"

He chuckled. "That's besides the point if you're starving in fresh air!"

We unsaddled and unbridled the horses. Eric slipped a backpack onto his shoulders and handed me a walking stick. "Are you ready for a hike?"

We climbed bantering lightly—offering each other little glimpses of ourselves, like sweets, as the mists lifted and dissolved in the sunlight and the capricious sky cleared. The only constants in this world of edges were the rush of wind and the muffled thump of waves at the cliffs' base. Eric stopped before a huge weather beaten slab cantilevered six hundred and fifty feet above the Atlantic.

"There's nothing between here and Boston and no grander view in all of Ireland."

"Oh Eric! It's breathtaking!"

Hundreds of dizzying feet below, the Atlantic shimmered—turquoise nearer the shore, steel and sapphire in the sun and cloud shadow farther out.

Alive with gannets and puffins, a huge sea crag speared the churning water. A boat filled with tourists pitched and yawed a respectful distance from its base. Eric quirked his eyebrow questioningly. "Do you want a closer look?"

I listened to the muffled thunder. "Yes." A gust of wind nearly knocked me off my feet. "Make that no!"

His eyes flashed with amusement as he sat down and scooted toward the edge. "Ah, go on! There's a fair bit of rock under us here. We'll lie on our bellies."

"OK, but only if you won't let go!"

His expression stilled. "I won't let go until you tell me to."

We lay on our stomachs and peered over the edge. Parapet after parapet of wind and wave-worn rock sliced downward to the hammering surf at their base. A brisk, cool breeze whipped our hair back and snatched the breath from our mouths. For a moment, I lost myself in the sighing rumble of the Atlantic, dropping down, down, down, past the soaring seabirds to the churning waves.

I shuddered and moved closer to Eric, his solid warmth a reassuring anchor.

His arm tightened on my waist. "Come away love. You've seen the edge of the land. Now let me show you its center."

He nodded to the crest of a high hill whose rocky shoulders swept toward high crags that lowered in the uncertain sunlight. He glanced back and nodded with approval.

"You're a fine strong lass. It's about two hours to Glen Clohinne's summit. It's off the tourist path, but there are two local treasures there, and a grand view of the countryside from the summit. Are you game for that?"

I squared my shoulders. "Bring it on!"

Eric shouldered a backpack and we both used walking sticks as we hiked into the rolling rocky hills of The Burren. It was an otherworld of saffron spotted limestone slabs criss-crossed by deep cracks bursting with hardy grasses, blue gentians, and purple orchids; a landscape formed from ancient sea beds heaved up and swept bare by glaciers;a time worn place of portal dolmans and ring forts. The pock-marked, rain-hollowed limestone also formed a roof for Europe's most extensive system of caves. For many locals that underworld was still part of the Otherworld.

We hiked through rocky fields always climbing, crossing the limestone pavement and gingerly hopping across three-foot cracks called "grykes."

When the wind and the cracks allowed, we bantered easily, lightly sketching an outline of ourselves for each other.

"Your accent… it's different from Eamon's and the people who say they're locals."

He glanced at me sharply." I'm from the North. You a have a good ear."

I snorted. "If I didn't I would never have made it through music school! How about you? "

Eric shrugged. "I never went to music school, but I started playing mandolin when I was eight. My Da was a great man for traditional Irish music. Mostly I just picked things up from other musicians."

He paused. "My parents were great ones for the old songs…especially rebel songs. There wasn't much time or money for lessons though. But you're a flutist and a teacher…"

"That was more my grandmother's doing than my parents. I sort of fulfilled her own dream of being a musician. Not that they weren't proud that I made All State Orchestra, but we were land rich and money poor so to speak. I think they really wanted me to be an accountant. Or a nurse. Something practical. When I found out that I'd gotten a scholarship to The Eastman School of Music in New York, my grand mom basically promised to cover any expenses that went beyond my work-study and scholarships. I still had loans so, I signed up to teach in inner city schools as a way to pay them back, but I really love the kids…well, most of the time. It's a treat to be able to expose them to a world of music they never get to experience…now that I'm the band teacher, I'm hoping to get the kids really excited about music."

"Sounds like you've made a huge impact. I can tell you're passionate about your work with the schoolchildren."

"I am…"

His broad back was to me and his voice was casual, but I felt a weight of intent beneath the question. "How long are you on holiday?"

"Three weeks. School doesn't start back till the end of August, but I have lesson plans to finish and then there are some children who take music lessons with me."

"And you're looking forward to that?"

"Yes. It's what I have. It give me a purpose." Wind—and a silence I was suddenly desperate to fill. "How about you?"

He spoke with a light irony. "I had three brilliant years at Queens University, but I dropped out due to a family emergency."

More silence. A lone gull keened like a banshee. We paused on an enormous limestone slab. "Someone I loved was killed. Her name was Brona."

Was. He drew in a breath, about to speak, then exhaled and shook his head. There was more. I could feel the weight of his pain—unspoken words pressing to be heard.

I touched his shoulder. "I'm sorry." His big hand curved up over mine.

Pain for pain. What could I offer? I understood absence. My child was lost to me. Bill was gone from my life. Both losses cut me deeply. But I knew that my child was somewhere healthy and happy. I had been assured. And Bill, well even in my blackest moods I never seriously wished him dead. But to be severed—to know in the depths of your bones that a vibrant presence that had once been part of yourself, was gone from the world. I pressed my lips together, holding back the cold comfort of shared misery. No. I had nothing to share that wouldn't add to his burden. Except for my presence.

"I'm here."

The big warm hand squeezed tighter.

"For now."

_For longer, so much longer._ My heart said. But my voice spoke the only truth I knew and I prayed that Eric could hear the hope behind my words.

"Things change…"

He cocked his head taking me in. "Aye right."

I paused to take a photo just as Eric shouted "Mind your step!"

"Ow!" My ankle twisted on a dip in the rock. I teetered on the edge of a deep crack and nearly went down on my ass. "Damn!"

Eric's big hand closed about my arm. "Here sit down."

He squatted next to me flexing my ankle and checking for swelling.

He seemed a bit anxious, "Does it hurt? I'll carry you if it's bad…"

I rubbed my ankle. "Just a little. I'll be fine. Really!"

We were in the middle of nowhere and while the thought of Eric carrying me had a certain appeal—the thought of hefting me several miles while maneuvering across cracks that could break_ his_ ankle didn't seem all that romantic.

His eyes took on a devilish glint. "Want me to kiss it better?"

I batted my eyelashes and channeled Scarlett O'Hara. "I'll bow to your expert opinion regarding 'lil 'ol me."

My mamma always said we should learn something new every day. The first lesson of that day was that Eric Northman's lips on my bare ankle sent Mayday signals directly to my quim.

We sat for a little while just to make sure that my ankle was really all right. When I got up and demonstrated my recovery to his satisfaction, he ran a finger down his nose and pointed uphill. Dark clouds were boiling on the horizon.

"The storm's about two hours away. We can make it to the summit with some time to spare if you're able for it. You'll have a rare view before the next drenching. Do you think you can manage?"

I gave him my perkiest can-do smile. "What's it y'all say? There's not a bother on me."

He chuckled. "Never heard it said better."

We climbed and climbed across clints and grykes to a small white-washed cottage snuggled like a hobbit hole into the hill's slope.

Eric dipped his head as he entered the low door and I took in the quaint cozy room with it's delft dogs over the mantelpiece, small round table, and narrow bed with its bright clean duvet. Eric started a fire in the hearth—stacking slivers of turf briquettes and tinder like a tepee then striking a match and blowing gently until the small flame took and surged hungrily into the belly of the turf. Since rain wasn't imminent, we shed our rain gear and set his backpack on an old table.

"We'll have tea here after I show you Clohinne's Heart."

"Why's it called that?"

A secretive smile softened his lips. "You'll see."

We clambered up a final outcrop of weathered limestone. Eric put his hands on my shoulders and turned me seaward.

Sunlight burnished the patchwork of small green fields dotted with boulders. Webs of grey stone fences threaded the lifts and hollows of the land. Purple heather, mustard yellow gorse, vermillion and amethyst gentians and Bloody Crainsbill softened the weathered cracks with their loveliness.

A herd of spindle legged wild goats blatted and streamed down the hilltop with the surety of acrobats. Inis Mór, Inis Meáin and Inis Óirr, the three Aran Islands, rose out of the sea clasped in torques of wild surf, battle scarred warriors defending Eire. There was power here. I could feel it in the living moistness of wind, in the ancient rock, throbbing like a heartbeat in the surf. And Eric was a part of this, his thick hair flying back in the cool updrafts; the strong elegant lines of his face and lithe body burnished bronze-gold in the honeyed light.

The horizon was dark. "They say that if you see the Arans, rain's on the way, and if you can't , it's already raining. It's on its way alright, but in the meantime..."

Eric gently turned me inland. "Here is Clohinne's heart. They say she was a woman of Tír na nÓg, the land of youth in Otherworld, who came from the portal of the well. A local chieftain fell in love with her and she bore him four strong sons. But there was a geasa, a taboo laid upon them both. If he touched her three time in anger, she must leave him and their children and return to the Otherworld. The years passed happily enough but, human nature being what it is, eventually without intending it, he shook her once, twice, three times and so she returned to her Otherworld broken-hearted.

But it's said that her spirit still guards the spring and the pulse of her heart beats through the land that holds the bones of her husband and sons. The waters have been venerated for their curative powers for thousands of years. And we still come here to the hawthorn and the spring because we Irish know that power exists alongside and within every stone, every well, every tree, every person."

The air and ground seemed to hum, throb, and resonate in my bones. The ceaseless breeze carried a sea tang and the slight sweet fragrance of wildflowers.

A shiver ran up my spine as I walked past a gnarled hawthorn tree with silver coins secreted round its roots and bits of cloth and ribbon twisted round its bark. With its back turned to the wind, its branches reached out like supplicant hands toward a carefully tended spring.

"In the States, sometimes we tie a yellow ribbon around a tree to remember someone."

"Remembering is part of it. But there's more to it. Hawthorn trees growing on hills or near sacred wells mark the fairy realm. People here still follow the old customs for good reason. They say that when DeLorean Motor Company built its factory in Dunmurry in the North of Ireland they cut down a hawthorn belonging to the fairies and that the good folk cursed them. That that's the real reason they went under."

He held out his hand and I took it as he quoted a line from James Joyce's Ulysses. "She trusts me, her hand gentle, and the long lashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil?"

Surrounded with the glint of coins, rosaries and statues of Mary, the holy well bubbled up from a raven dark Otherworld beneath the limestone. I knelt and touched the water, drawn to it, thirsty for whatever healing it might bring.

A whisper from my childhood. A poem my grandmother used to quote, _Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild. With a faery, hand in hand. For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand._

But Eric was here with me. If the spirit of the land touched him, he was still flesh and bone, his eyes alive with desire. If Clohinne's well was a center, Eric was another. I rose and faced those sea blue eyes that touched my soul.

He wrapped his hands around my waist and lifted me off of my feet so that we were eye to eye and finished the quote.

"Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. O touch me soon now. I am quite here alone. Sad too. Touch…"

Helpless to resist the urge to touch and be touched, I leaned into him and stopped his words with my mouth. His lips parted mine. He kissed me long and deep, his tongue sweet and restless in my mouth. Then, he drew back, searching my face, and my eyes said _Yes. _ He made a small sound deep in his throat as I traced his lips with my tongue, brushed his high proud cheekbones until every brush of fingers and lips said _yes_.

He reclaimed my mouth hard and hungry then, the taste of him richer than Belgian chocolate. I was slick with arousal, every nerve pulsing, feeling him hard against me.

I moaned as he pulled back. His lips brushed against mine as he spoke. "What do you want Sookie?"

My body tingled with fear and anticipation. His eyes traveled over me. I could feel the heat of him, his pounding heart or maybe it was my own. I drew a deep breath, tried to be calm. Sex. Connection. It's what I wanted. What he wanted. My nipples tingled and my body throbbed with the wanting.

I buried my face against his throat.

"I guess I'm as much of a 'chancer' as Amelia," my skin prickled with the adrenaline rush of a gambler about to stake everything on a spin of the wheel, "because what I want is you."

He cupped my face drawing me back so that his eyes blazed into mine, his touch almost unbearable in its tenderness.

"Then we're both chancers together."

Hand in hand, we entered the cabin as the rain began to fall. The turf fire sweetened and warmed the small whitewashed room and wind sighed against the old panes as we undressed each other in the turf fire's glow, our hands exploring. He held me hard against him—the heat and wanting pulsing between us running like moonshine through our veins.

"I dreamed I made love to you last night…and here you are like a promise kept."

"I dreamed about you too." I said not meeting his eyes.

"Mmmm?"

"Centaurs were involved…"

He grinned "I'm not sure I can compete."

My eyes met his. "I have a poster that says, 'While most are dreaming of success, winners wake-up and work hard to achieve it.' You look like a winner to me."

"Are you the trophy or the judge?"

"Maybe both, but you've already won first prize."

Currents of pleasure surged through me as he unbuttoned my blouse and unhooked my lacy bra, his hands warm as he cupped my breasts.

I moaned as his hands seared a path down breasts, ribs, and the swell of hips. They hovered briefly over a few tiny silver lines.

Habits die hard. I felt ashamed. Maybe he thought I was a negligent mother who'd abandoned her child to go off with a friend. Maybe he was having second thoughts.

I stammered "I was a teenager. I couldn't keep…I gave her up for adoption…"

He put a finger over my lips. "It's OK. . It's enough, now, that you're here and that you're beautiful. So beautiful you take my breath away."

He pointed to his shoulder and a spot just below his groin. "I have me own clints and grykes."

A thin white scar ran beneath his left shoulder blade and a small pock mark pale against the pale skin of his right thigh. I touched them; the pock mark a hair's breadth from his femoral artery.

"Mementos …The Troubles." He said ruefully and shrugged slightly as if such wounds hardly mattered.

The Troubles. Northern Ireland's murderous, entrenched, complex web of tribal hatred and intimate revenge. The Troubles had left their mark upon Eric. What could I do in the peat light and the rain light but love the body and accept the man he was?

"It's OK. _ You're _beautiful."

Washed with pewter rain light, Eric's naked body was beautiful—skin golden brown on face and arms and palest white where the corrugated leanness of his flat abdomen met the golden bush between hard muscled thighs. His pulse beat strong in the hollow of his throat as he picked me up and laid me on the narrow bed. He dipped his head, his voice husky, "I love the feel of you," then teased my nipples with his lips and tongue until they were taut and aching, His touch was light, painfully teasing. But two could play at that game.

I planted open-mouthed kisses down the smooth planes of chest and stomach, running my fingers from wide powerful shoulders to narrow hips and stroking his full throbbing erection.

"Jesus!" He growled and rolled on top of me, his hard thighs forcing my legs apart.

I wrapped said legs around his hips, my cry muffled against his shoulder, as he moved hard into me.

"Ah! So wet. So good!"

He thrust deeper, jolting me to my core again and again and again as I arched in wild response to take us further. Breath was flame; flesh was fire; thought a sigh in the storm of cresting sensations.

I squirmed against him, gasping. His strokes increased until he reared up, head thrown back, breath ragged. The throbbing rush between my thighs ignited and spread like wildfire as a second heartbeat grasped and released, grasped and released him. He groaned long and low as he lost himself and spilled into me in a jarring, pulsing climax that left us both boneless and gasping.

They say that a hurricane's eye is an axis of tranquility in the heart of whirling chaos. My fears could go whirling where they might. I might never know Eric completely; maybe not even for much longer, but a part of him had become a part of me. All that mattered in that turf warm silver light was the certainty of sheets tangled about us, the sweet heady musk of our lovemaking, Eric's warm damp back, his body curled around me, our chests rising and falling with one breath and my eyes closing as he fell asleep.

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_**Thank my sexy hubby, Pat, for Eric getting to home plate.**_

_**I read him the scenario, and we agreed that given the setting, the backstories, and the attraction, ES would go for the gold. **_

_**Would you like Eric's POV?**_

Hehheh…Stole TB Bill and Sookie's "What do you want" lines and redirected them a bit.

Writing is HARD. Your reviews keep me going.


	6. Chapter 6

Celtic Karma CH 6

From a tape recording of snatches of conversation on British Army radio during the shooting in Derry

**". . . You're mother's been killed by the Armee-e, Doo da, doo da" (voice singing).**

**Static . . . "Return fire . . . Aim pistol lower regions . . . Roger, Wilco. Out." . . .**

**Static . . . (sound of shot). . "Yoo-hoo! Well done! Keep it up." . . . more static . . .**

**"I said shoot for lower regions . . . the balls" . . . "Over" . . .**

**___síochán síochán síochán síochán síochán síochán_**

A/N: This will be the first of two chapters giving Eric's POV and background. Irish Eric's speaking—not me. My job is to channel and craft a character's voice and experience. So, please don't shoot the messenger.

Terms: **Provo/RIRA** (Provisional IRA/Real Irish Republican Army— splinter paramilitary Catholic groups responsible for all sorts of killing and violence),** UDA **(Ulster Defense Association—strongest Protestant paramilitary group…ditto on the killing and violence), **RUC** (Royal Ulster Constabulary—the police force in Northern Ireland from 1922 to 2001 primarily Protestant pro Unionists) **UVF** (Ulster Volunteer Force—a loyalist Paramilitary Organization—the Shankill Butchers were their death squad in the 70s). "Taig" is a derogatory term for a Catholic with Nationalist leanings.

A fag is a cigarette.

The Irish word for peace is _síochán,_ "Viking" is _lochlannach. Mac _means "son of"; so Eric Northman's real name is Seamus McLoughlin - son of the Viking :-)

_Thanks FDM for letting me test my ideas on you, for editing and looking at just about everything I write, and for putting up w/ me. _

Also pimping the Age of Eric contest. Please read the fab entries! Links are on my profile :-)

**___síochán síochán síochán síochán síochán síochán_**

**EPOV**

I don't like mirrors. The facade of my body's a flicker-flash. Structure without substance. As a teen I used to strut—proud of hard muscles and lean contours, the size of my cock, the strong clean lines of my face.

After I'd lost interest in a university woman I'd slept with (not quite a lover) she called me "Adonis" and quoted Shakespeare, "When he beheld his shadow in the brook/The fishes spread on it their golden gills."

"Take care Adonis" she'd added. "You're only human. Sooner or later you'll be shredded like the rest of us."

Aye. There was shredding aplenty in Derry in the Wee North, in the Short Strand of Belfast, in abandoned lots, and in the homes of the "lifted." But I was a true Northman, a lochlannach of the fighting McLaughlin's. Death could not touch us. We were death.

I drew my first breath the day that Da's mate, the hunger striker Bobby Sands, died in the H-Block of Maze prison. Nine more mates died in H-Block in the next three months. My Uncle Tom, the "provo priest"— gave them last rites, absolved them of their sins in the cause of a "just war," and buried them.

Karma, and all other fanciful notions aside, we are what we eat. Our diet was bitter and peace between the tribes was bloody unlikely. The only peace I knew was the release I found between a woman's legs or in my music.

Our diet included violent death and threats of violence on back streets where butchers prowled, in vacant lots, at paramilitary check points on dark roads, even in our homes. I grew up with Brits rumbling through our territory in their Saracens, and the police force doing what they damn well pleased to us. We hated the bowler hat wearing bastards who marched through the Bogside each July banging their bloody big drums and chanting, "A rope a rope to hang the Pope," and "Give 'em one for the Shankill!"

We hurled bricks and later petrol bombs. Sometimes, some of the lads would steal cars from other neighborhoods.

At the end of the night the joyriders set the cars aflame. Savage flames! Electric blue and red-explosive and spectacular against the furtive darkness of our streets.

We didn't cross the line into enemy territory unless we were prepared to fight or kill. Road blocks manned by IRA, UDA, UDF, and British soldiers were as common as fleas upon a dog_._ Lines-protocols, regimens, territories- bound us...and them. We were, and are, stunningly similar. For good or ill, each tribe gathered around its own, guarding secrets and dispensing its version of justice within a terrible code of silence.

Life was tightlipped mothers scraping together a few quid; fathers on the dole; narrow brick homes; squinting windows; a sign with the silhouette of an armed gunman reading "Provoland."

We loved our own and hated our enemies with a concentrated, millennial hatred bred into us and tenderly nurtured by those who loved us the most.

And our love could be as brutal as our hatred. We did not spare the rod on our prodigal sons and daughters. We loved Aileen, the slight, pretty blond girl from the next street who was tarred and feathered by her own mother and aunts for dating a British soldier.

If we were warriors, rebels, vigilantes, and killers—we were also devoted family men, mums, sons and daughters. We attended Mass and joked and sang in our pubs.

But I was the one with music in my head and in my hands—who knew every song and story and kept the embers fanned in the brown corner of the local pub when the pints flowed. I was the bard—the scanachie—keeper of a millennium of tribal memory. My parents loved me—thought of themselves as good people—saw my need for music and filled it.

I wrote my pain and fury into my songs believing with all of my heart that the enemy had caused our sorrow.

Images rise from the depths—wounds I must examine if I ever intend to become whole.

I see myself reflected in the loving eyes of the priceless, gentle woman who has come so astonishingly into my life.

My gut clenches.

Child of a kinder place, will she begin to understand the choices that I have made?

Will she accept the man I am or turn away from this darkness within me?

I came of age when I was seventeen years old.

Around five a.m., the RUC sledge hammered the door to our house, then burst in and arrested my Da.

Thirty minutes later, they came after me at my friend Michael Larkin's house and arrested me there. They said it was in connection with a RUC officer in an IRA rocket attack. Da kept quite a bit close. I didn't know who was or wasn't involved. I was also loyal to my friends and family, and felt no sympathy for a traitor who got kneecapped for squealing on his mates.

Still, it was my first arrest by the RUC. I knew they'd hurt me. Badly. I sent up a silent prayer that I wouldn't disgrace myself and my family by screaming, pissing myself from fear, or saying anything other than, "Piss off fucker!"

From six in the morning to around noon, I was questioned by two detectives working two at a time. They hit me under the chin, in the stomach, on my arms, throat, and the back of my head.

They kept asking me about the RUC officer who'd been killed, barking, "Did you feel good about doing it?"

At one point, they had me in a choke hold. My throat burned. I gasped for breath. My hearing went funny and the piss yellow walls became waves.

Then they left and I puked my guts out in a litter bin.

Time didn't exist because this was hell.

I was questioned twice more that day standing for hours while they taunted, barked, hit and slapped.

It must have been around midnight when two new detectives (Cuntface and Dogface for the record) came in.

Dogface put his boot between my legs and pushed on my balls. Tears of shame and rage sprang to my eyes.

Cuntface grabbed my ears, pulled and dug in his fingers until blood dripped onto my t-shirt. I clenched my jaw so I wouldn't cry out, a poor decision as it turned out. The bastard yanked my hair until the back of my head sank between my shoulder blades. His puffy owl eyes glared inches from mine. He took the fag from his lips.

"Think you're a tough hood? Proud of that pretty face, ye Taig bitch?"

He pressed the burning fag end onto my neck, then slammed my face against the edge of table .

Christ, it hurt! My head exploded with the pain of it

They laughed as I squealed and bled like a stuck pig as bones crunched and blood spurted. I wished to god that I'd faint, but I never did. Not quite.

One spat on a handkerchief and wiped off the blood.

Dog brown eyes in meaty purple pouches held mine.

He rasped. "I'm going to kill you, you little shite. I'm going to make you a living shell."

I managed, "Solicitor—you fucker..."

So. They worked on me with fists and threats again. But I'd stopped caring whether I lived or died. Once they'd figured out that I wasn't talking and didn't care what happened to me, they eased up a bit.

"Complain all you want!" Dogface sneered. "We'll give the UVF the goods on you and your Da! If they don't get you…we'll lift you again in a week. By your mother's stinking knickers—you'll beg to tell us what it is you 'don't know!' "

God only knows how much later, I saw my solicitor who took in my bloody clothes and bruises with sad jaded eyes. He sighed and shook his head.

"We'll get an affidavit from the doctor lad. I'll file with the High Court. But for now, I've filed a paper for habeas corpus. You're free to go now. The Lads have sent someone to pick you up."

Before I left, the police sergeant winked and whispered. "See you soon…"

They released my Da the same morning. Two cars waited. My Mam grim and silent stepped out of one. Her lips trembled slightly as she gently embraced us and handed us our bags, eyes glossy with unshed tears.

Da cupped her face. "It'll be alright lass. We'll see it through."

Mam stared into his eyes searching for a confirmation that didn't exist. She nodded and brushed her lips against his light as down, careful of cuts and bruises.

"Aye. We always do." Then she turned back to the car, her careworn face a cautious mask hiding deep rivers of pain and sorrow.

How many gravesides and prisons had she visited? How many family members had she sent into the streets praying that they'd return?

An hour later, Da and I were snug in a "safe house" festooned with Celtic knickknacks and embroidered prayers to the Madonna.

The lady of the house, who went by the British sounding surname Douglas, tended our wounds with a practiced hand while two of The Lads took turns questioning us. When they were done, Mrs. Douglas settled us comfortably in a warm parlor where a fire crackled merrily. Da leaned over a plate of biscuits. His hand trembled slightly as he touched my face.

"I'm sorry for this."

I stared at his purple bruises, split lip, and swollen nose and shrugged. "Not your fault is it?"

He shook his head. "I brought you into this."

"What choice did you have?"

It was a rhetorical question. We were and always would be, Óglaigh na hÉireann , The Irish Volunteers. There was no other choice for the McLaughlin's of Derry.

Dad smiled gingerly. "You did what had to be done."

By which he meant I kept my mouth shut. I didn't know anything about the killing, but plenty of lads had given false evidence during a thrashing like that.

His big battered hand squeezed my shoulder and I winced. "I'm proud of ye, son."

The lady of the house bustled in with more tea and sambos. With her silver hair and tidy home, she seemed as sweet and harmless as a prune. To my knowledge, no one ever found her out. She touched my cheek softly, "Ah Daniel! He's the spit of you. He'll do."

**___síochán síochán síochán síochán síochán síochán_**

After we returned, The Lads rewarded me for my "valor" with my first assignment on a punishment squad. The Lads bought me a pint and congratulated me while Da beamed and clapped my back.

"Aye he's a fine lad, and likely enough! "

His eyes, blue as a summer sea, hid monsters not too far beneath their sparkling surface. My younger face mirrored his own. My own raging monsters streaked toward the surface as I prepared for my rite of passage into the ranks of the death dealers.

I was excited, even happy, at the prospect of killing one of our tribe's enemies. My father recited the old catechism that we both knew by heart as if he were soothing a child.

"This is not a normal society. You have to instill fear. There's no order otherwise. But it never works if it occurs over a long period of time. People get used to being threatened. Look at Aidan Mulhern. He's been kneecapped three times and is still doing the same stupid things he was kneecapped for. Now, the Orange son of a bitch we're going after will pay for what they did to Dermott and Brona."

Poor Dermott McNamara was a skinny 19-year-old cab driver. Not hostile. Not angry. Not political. But one of our tribe for all that.

In life I'd paid him no attention. His sister, lovely Brona was another matter. Seventeen. Beautiful. White velvet skin. Thick chestnut hair to the waist. Graceful fine boned with dark doe eyes; she was all a man could want.

"She's a good girl," my mother warned. That didn't stop me from wanting her. She played the guitar and I found peace and what I knew of beauty in the liquid music of her voice. Sometimes we'd talk and once, only once, I kissed her quick and sly. Soft lips. Sweet breath. The thick silk of her hair sliding through my fingers as I moved it aside to nuzzle her neck. In my mind, at least, she was mine. I burned to punish the men who raped her and disgraced us all.

The Ulster Defense Association stopped Dermott and Brona at a roadblock coming back from a dance in the wee hours. They threw him in the back of a jeep and drove off while they gagged Brona. Somewhere along the way, they shot him in the head and left his body for us to find.

But my Brona of the Sorrows! One of them had shouted "Taig whore!" and threw her down. Four of them raped her in a ditch then dumped her—half naked and crazed- in an empty lot miles from the Bogside.

Black armbands in place, we slung our arms across each other's shoulders and carried Dermott to his grave. Before she sang for him, my eyes met Brona's across Dermott's casket. I was mirrored in those dark and beautiful pools of grief as, for a brief moment, she sang the savagery out of out hearts.

Afterwards, I took her hand.

"Sorry for you trouble, Brona…"

She spoke softly.

"Killing them won't bring him back. Or...or change what they did to me…"

"But for what the bastards did…to him…to you…"

"Dermott wouldn't want any more killing. It wasn't his way. All he wanted was a bit of peace."

_Fool! Dreamer! _I thought , even as I said, as gently as I could,_ "_But it's _our_ way."

Tipped by an anonymous call, we tracked one of the bastards down. Watched and waited until our enemy was smug and careless. Then we struck.

A cold, grey rain spattered the windscreen as I clutched the wheel; white knuckled and sweating, as my older brother Fintan and my cousin Ciaran fetched the bastard. The telly still flickered carnival colours as they frog marched him down, half conscious and bleeding, shirt slick with sweat, the stink of his fear thick around us in the Hiace van.

No one would breathe a word. A soldier follows orders. A son is obedient to his father. A tribesman's killer deserves death, but a rapist deserves a painful death.

Knowing he had nothing left to lose, the bastard confessed.

"Aye. Your little Taig cunt's a fine tight ride. Moaned and whimpered very sweetly."

We beat him with Billy clubs. Then fists and kicks. I enjoyed every meaty thud of my fist and boot and laughed with delight at the crimson spray of blood I made when I broke his nose.

It was a red joy. I could have beaten him to pulp for Brona's sake and for her grief for her brother.

When we finished him off, he was glad of the bullet to the head.

When it was over, my Da clasped my shoulder, the weight of his gaze heavy upon me.

I saw myself reflected in his eyes—hands slick with blood, roused with battle lust, and knew that whatever of me was pure and true lay with the broken body in the blood dark mud.

I thought of Brona and knew that her dead brother was right.

Violence would never right the wrongs done to us, heal our terrible wounds, or reunite Ireland.

We had applied our eye for an eye justice until we were –all of us—blind.

A new purpose shivered through me. I wasn't sure how or when, but I'd find a way to leave before I became like my father and his mates—one of the living dead.

**___síochán síochán síochán síochán síochán síochán síochán_**

**Please REVIEW and share your thoughts.**

NB: There's a wonderful organization called Ulster Project that brings Catholic and Protestant kids to the US and puts them with host families. They socialize with each other and learn that they are really not so different. The link's on my profile page.

Human Rights Watch issued a report on RUC and paramilitary violations against children's rights during 'The Troubles'. Both Catholic and Protestant children experienced regular and severe physical assault and mental harassment at the hands of RUC officers, usually conducted to force a false confession of a crime.

In an accompanying statement, HRW said: **"The extent of the violence inflicted on children is appalling. Helsinki Watch heard dozens of stories from children, their parents, lawyers, youth workers and political leaders of children being stopped on the street and hit, kicked and abused again and again by police and soldiers. And seventeen-year-olds told Helsinki Watch of severe beatings in detention during interrogations by police." (Children in Northern Ireland, Human Rights Watch)**

To my knowledge, no response has been issued by the British Government or by Northern Ireland paramilitaries despite requests from various European bodies and human rights organizations.


	7. Chapter 7

Celtic Karma

Chapter 7 

_**Where Lagan stream sings lullaby**_

_**There blows a lily fair**_

_**The twilight gleam is in her eye**_

_**The night is on her hair**_

_**And like a love-sick lennan-shee**_

_**She has my heart in thrall**_

_**Nor life I owe nor liberty**_

_**For love is lord of all.**_

_**Her welcome, like her love for me,**_

_**Is from her heart within:**_

_**Her warm kiss is felicity**_

_**That knows no taint of sin.**_

_**And, when I stir my foot to go,**_

_**'Tis leaving Love and Light**_

_**To feel the wind of longing blow**_

_**From out the dark of night.**_

"_**My Lagan Love" Traditional Irish Folk Song**_

A/N: Sorry for the delay. Real life plus the need to get a few chapters of Dark Storm Rising up intervened. The"leannan-sidhe" of "My Lagan Love" is a faery lover. For the purposes of CK, "My Lagan Love" is Brona Eric/Seamus' fiancé. The Lagan is the river that flows through Belfast. A beautiful link for "My Lagan Love" is on my profile page under CK Ch 7.

Irish Speak: "Go n-eerie an bóthar leat" is the popular _May the road rise to meet you_, or _May the road proceed you_. A "glovebox" is a glove compartment. "Quid" are bucks. A-levels like our Advanced Placement exams, are a cut above O-levels which are sort of like SATs. Just a reminder-Eric's given name is Seamus McLaughlin. He changed his name to Eric Northman to escape his past and distance himself from his Provo roots..

NEWS FLASH: The amazingly talented Zigster designed a BEAUTIFUL banner for Celtic Karma. The link is at the top of my profile page. Check it out :-D

**Thanks AmaZen and FDM for your untiring support and your brilliant editing.**

_**8888888**_

**EPOV**

I did my job for The Lads and studied hard to earn top marks at school. Like the lower and upper worlds of our pagan ancestors, my "job" as driver and back-up muscle, and my student life existed side by side but rarely interacted. My only light was Brona.

Hidden behind a veil of willow branches, I'd hold her in the dappled light, stroking, loving the warm weight of her breast through the thin fabric of her shirt, happy just to hold her and to breathe the same air. A sun shaft glinted against her dark hair, sparking strands to red gold-thick as smooth as sea turned stones in my hand. The pale oval of her face framed a delicate sweep of full smiling lips, fine high cheekbones lightly freckled, beneath a dark sweep of lashes—dark brown eyes with hints of green.

She was my love, my muse, my lily—pure and beautiful despite the brokenness and damage done to her. I wanted her to be mine in every way. To protect her forever. That afternoon beneath the willows, she curled her fingers into my hair, let me part the velvet warmth of her lips, and pressed against me until I was wild to take her. She settled into the embrace, winding her arms inside my jacket and around my back. Her sweet breath fanned my face. I rolled on top of her with a groan. She tensed. Fear flashed in her eyes. She tore away, her heart hammering, breathing ragged.

"I'm sorry...I can't… I _love_ you…want you…but I'm so scared… when they…then the exam in hospital…"

I touched her trembling lips with one finger, never happier that we'd trackedwe'd tracked down and executed the bastards who had raped her. Glad that The Lads chose me to squeeze the trigger and put a bullet through the last fucker's head while he knelt in front of me. I'd never tell her—she hadn't wanted that—but I had.

"I love you …I want you to feel safe…I'll wait love. Right now it's enough that you're here and we're together."

She sniffed and buried her face against my chest. "Hold me Seamus."

I gathered her close against me, taking in the fresh scents of autumn that clung to her, conscious of where she touched me, holding back, for her sake and mine.

"We have to get away from all this—so that you're safe—so that we can get on with our lives in the peace that you need. I want to be with you forever. That will never happen in this hell hole. If we do the grinds, get top marks on our levels…"

She shifted and met my eyes. "Could we really do it Seamus? Do you think that we could both get scholarships to University?"

"Our marks are good. If we get _top_ marks…"

A smile found its way through her mask of uncertainty. "It would have to be in Ireland. Mam would be wanting me to take a train or a bus home…"

So, we made our plans and hoped for the best.

When our teacher announced that the Headmistress wanted to see us, our mates hooted and cat called.

Brona's cheeks flushed beautifully as she muttered, "Now everyone thinks we were caught snogging."

I grinned hugely. "What's so bad about that? You're me mott after all."

Before we reached the scuffed vinyl settee outside of the Headmistress's office, she pulled me into a nook and hugged me, her eyes shining with excitement.

"This is what we've been waiting for! You go first."

"No you!"

The headmistress called out my name. Brona settled herself on the settee and mouthed _Good Luck! _as I walked into the office.

The headmistress beamed. "Well done Seamus. Your scores give you top placement across your best three levels."

I stared at her as if she were speaking Greek.

"Well? Aren't you pleased?

"Yes ma'am." I stared at her. This is what we'd worked for, hoped for. It hardly seemed real. Working class lads rarely attended University—none of the McLaughlins ever had.

"Don't you know what this means for you—for your future?"

"I'm not sure ma'am."

"Queens University Belfast has reviewed your scores." She picked up a letter from her desk and handed it to me. "Congratulation lad, you've been offered an A-level Entrance Scholarship–a _full _scholarship mind-to Queens University Belfast. Won't your parents be proud when they hear the news?"

My heart skipped a beat. "Please ma'am, don't tell them yet…it's. . ."

Her lips thinned. "Yes. I see. But you have to tell them before the awards ceremony. It's been years, since we've had two scholarship winners. This is a cause for celebration." She squeezed my hand. "This scholarship will open the door to a bright future for you Eric. Don't let…other matters…get in the way."

It wouldn't be easy. Queens, The Queen's University Belfast, had a strongly Protestant history. Of course, lots of Catholics attended including the poet Seamus Heaney and my father's mate, the hunger-striker Laurence McKeown. In theory my parents ought to be pleased. But this was the North where your last name and your neighborhood still mattered, and I had no idea how my parents would react. I left the Headmistress's office, lifted Brona and swung her around, grinning like an idiot.

I put her down. "I think we both just won the lotto. Go see. I'll wait for you."

Several minutes later she emerged with a springy bounce glowing like a sunbeam. She waved her letter her letter in my face.

"I got an A-Level Scholarship for education to St. Mary's in Belfast just down the road from you. We'll be away from here…together."

No secret lasts long within a close knit tribe. News soon got out of our accomplishment.

Brona's Mam was overjoyed and, on the surface at least, so was my family. For the most part life went on as though nothing had changed. The RUC still threatened, men were lifted and killed, bomb threats, checkpoints, maiming, and murders continued as we breached each others' battle lines. I still was expected to do my bit for The Lads as a driver or as "reinforcement."

Still as the time came for me to depart- in the pub, on the street and even in my home I sensed a drawing away. I was still one of them by blood and upbringing, but my willing and permanent departure from the fold branded me as other—a changeling "sidhe" departing for an alien world. If my good fortune made them proud, it also made them uncomfortable.

They'd planned a farewell hooley at the pub on the evening before we took the train to Belfast. I slipped some extra quid into my wallet next to my train ticket, touched it like a good luck talisman, thenand then walked the dingy blocks to Brona's. It was high summer, a week after Marching Season and the Falls Road still simmered with rage. Charred bits of rubbish and broken glass cluttered the streets and alleys. Bruises turned from purple to yellow-green; some men and boys were in custody or simply missing.

Like vicious Monsoons, Marching Season was bound to lash us and wreck havoc. As in a storm's aftermath we'd tidy, regroup, and get on with our life. Mam complained that it would be weeks before things were "set to rights." Da slid out from beneath the car he'd been checking for suspicious wiring and regarded me suspiciously. "Ye best not wear that that cap in the McNamara house! Fookin' rude."

Da would give out to me for wearing a cap in the house, but wasn't bothered by the fact that I shattered a Unionist's jaw the night before when we caught a pack of them spray painting Orange swill on our walls. I gripped my guitar case a bit tighter. No point in commenting. "I'll save you and Mam a spot. Bring your fiddle."

Da wiped his hands on a rag. "We'll meet you there." He squeezed my shoulder. "We _are _proud. It's a great thing you've done, but you must never forget who you are—and where our loyalties lie. The Lads have business tonight. But there's something from them in the glovebox."

The envelope was fat. My hand trembled a bit as I sat on the faded plush seat and counted out four thousand quid—then read the handwritten note from the Top Lad.

_**We congratulate you and wish you the best. Your achievement is a source of pride to us all. Take pride in your achievements—all of them—but remember that**__**there is a thin line between pride and conceit. You are a part of us and we are a part of you, always. As the blessed Saint Teresa of Avila said, **____"__**All things must come to the soul from its roots, from where it is planted.**__**" Neither tree nor man will last long without them. Here is a small token of our regard. Until we meet again, **__**go n-éirí an bóthar leat.**__**  
**_

My father stared at me. His voice was uncompromising but oddly gentle. "Best go in the house for a moment lad."

When he'd shut the door. I handed the envelope to my father. He stared at its contents in stunned silence, and then shook his head. "This gift's an honor."

"Every honor comes with a price. I did my duty by The Lads. I don't want their money."

Da scowled, his eyes level with mine under drawn brows. "You can't return it. It's a gift! There'd be a black mark against us. Think of your brothers and Mam if you don't give a shite about me."

"It's too much money. It's an investment. I'll owe them. They'll fund my education and then I'll be in their pocket." I'd never be free of them. "I won't use the money."

Da snorted. "Ah, Seamus…gets off your high horse. They're taking care of their own. My advice is to put that lot in savings first thing. Don't think it won't come in handy. Now stash that envelope and go meet your lass."

When I got to the McNamara's, Brona was waiting on the step with her bodhran and whistles.

"Mam must have gone over the items list St. Mary's sent a hundred times. You know how she gets since…everything. Couldn't keep still-worrying had we packed everything, had she made enough food, and if Paddy and Anne would be able to manage. I asked her to go on ahead to help." Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Tomorrow morning we'll be in Belfast, living on campus. Everything will be different."

But in the North the two worlds—the world of clans and violence and the "normal" world always coexisted. There were The Belfast Brigade and their Unionist reflection, military and paramilitary check points, deeply divided neighborhoods, and the constant underlying tension of living in what was still, despite peace accords and promises, a war zone. But hovering above the ugliness and violence was Queens, a lovely upper world of light and learning. A world that offered peace and escape from the strangling roots that bound us to this place and time.

I grinned and kissed her lightly on the lips. "We worked for this together."

"We did!" She paused and ran her fingers over my bruised knuckles. Tilting her head back, she peered into my face. "What's this? You promised—there'd be no more of this! Oh Seamus, will they never leave you alone?"

I shrugged and said offhandedly. "That was the last of it. I'm done with them. That's what we've worked for—to be together. Belfast's just the first step."

She slid her bodhran case up her arm, and began to walk deliberately toward the pub. There was an almost imperceptible note of pleading in her voice. "Can you promise that it will be better? I can't bear it any longer. The violence. The fear. Never knowing if you'll come back or be lifted. "

Ahead we could hear snatches of music and raucous laughter—the glare of neon against the wet street. The hooley was well under way.

I seized her arm pulling her back against me. "I love you. I'd die for you. Everything I've done—even the things you hate—I've done to protect you. Christ Brona! We'll be together. Away from all of this. I promise. Things_ will _be different."

She flushed, but remained silent—her expression neutral—almost immobile.

"Jaysus! Say something. Even if it's 'Piss off!'"

A flash of humor crossed her face, but she spoke with a light bitterness. "Belfast's still The North and you're still a McLaughlin…a rose by any other name, aye?"

I chuckled, "Then I suppose I'll have to change my name."

**_8888888888888_**

_**Love is a helluva investment, aye? Poor Eric, poor Brona—poor Sookie. How will Sookie cope with Eric's past? Should he even tell her?**_

_**Let me know what you think.**_

**REVIEWS ARE LIKE GOLD AT THE RAINBOW'S END**


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